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for a second before continuing their journey.
    I straightened up as my mom returned from the kitchen with a basket of rolls covered in a green cloth napkin that matched the place mats.
    Everything looked magazine-perfect, except for us. My mom wore that excess worry in the wrinkles in her forehead, and Sarah was a ghost. And me . . . I didn’t want to think about what I looked like in this messed-up diorama of “home.”
    The steady clip of my dad’s wingtips grew louder as hecrossed from the mudroom through the family room to the hall.
    I steeled myself for the lecture, his downturned mouth, the carefully measured anger and disappointment in me. Again.
    I’d been here more times than I could count—getting in trouble for something I’d done or said. Sunday dinner was always the reckoning.
    But my dad just dropped into his chair with a sigh, removing the white plastic collar at his throat.
    â€œLooks great,” he said to my mom.
    â€œGreat,” my mom said back to him with a forced cheeriness.
    I watched them both warily. What was this?
    â€œSarah, do you want to lead us in grace?” my dad asked.
    There was no response. Which wasn’t a surprise. That was exactly how it had been last week and the week before that and the week before . . .
    Without missing a beat, my dad started instead. “Come, Lord Jesus, be our guest and let these gifts to us be blessed. Amen.”
    The serving spoons clanked against the bowls as my dad served himself and then passed everything to my mom. Like everything was normal, which was the most abnormal response I could think of.
    My mom put tiny portions on Sarah’s plate, concentrating on cutting her meat and doling out peas on her plate as if they were individually numbered and needed to be in the correct order.
    The silence grew thicker and heavier with every second that passed. No one said a thing, not even when Sarah appeared only long enough to grab her plate and take it beneath the table with her.
    â€œCan you pass the butter?” my dad asked, and I jolted at the break in the quiet.
    My mom handed him the butter plate and matching knife.
    Was no one going to say anything? Really?
    â€œJace,” my mom prompted.
    I tensed, my hand tight around my fork.
    â€œGive me your plate.” She waved her hand at me in a summoning gesture.
    Oh.
    I passed it across to her and she loaded my plate as carefully, cutting my meat as she had Sarah’s. It was as embarrassing as it was necessary. I could manage a fork right-handed, but a knife and fork would require both hands and my left arm wasn’t fully cooperating, especially with anything that required precise movements.
    â€œHow were the other services?” my mom asked my dad as she handed me back my plate.
    Finally. Now it was coming. I steadied myself in my chair. Jacob Christopher, what were you thinking?
    â€œAttendance was up. We had some AV issues, but John said that it was localized to the auditorium, the broadcast should be fine.” My dad focused on mixing his peas into his potatoes.
    â€œThat’s good.”
    I waited, my breath shallow.
    â€œJacob,” my dad said.
    I found I couldn’t look at him, not for a long moment. When I managed to, he barely glanced in my direction.
    â€œCan you pass the rolls, please?” he asked.
    I passed them over, and he took them without further comment.
    That was it?
    My spine sagged toward the back of my chair. I should have been relieved. But instead, anxiety bloomed like an impossible itch beneath my skin.
    It was a familiar pattern: get caught, get yelled at and/or punished, and get forgiven.
    But now what? What did the non-acknowledgment of my mistakes mean?
    I forced myself to pick up my fork and eat a bite of roast.
    Maybe this was what happened when you were no longer forgivable, no matter what punishment or penanceyou were willing to do. We’d never talked about the accident, not