Mark took a sip of water.
Then he said, “Okay.”
That was all.
No argument.
No questions about percentages.
No demand to know why being responsible had somehow become grounds for exclusion.
Just okay.
Patricia reached over and touched his arm.
“I knew you’d understand.”
I remember thinking she couldn’t have chosen a worse sentence.
Apparently, the evening wasn’t finished.
About ten minutes later, while people collected their coats, Patricia approached us.
“Mark, before you leave, could you look at the garage door? It’s making that clicking noise again.”
For a second, I thought I’d misunderstood.
Mark hadn’t.
“Sure, Mom.”
So naturally, we stopped at their house on the way home, because apparently the clicking garage door faced a medical emergency and couldn’t possibly wait until Saturday.
Richard opened the garage while Mark removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.
I stood beside the workbench as my husband knelt on the cold concrete and examined the safety sensor.
