When I walk into my house, I hear the clatter and clanging of dishes in the kitchen. I come to a dead stop. Immediate apprehension grips my heart because usually there is nobody at home when I get home from school.
My mom calls, "Is that you, Heather?"
I release the breath I am holding and I walk toward the kitchen. I pass the dining room and I notice the centrepiece on the table-fresh flowers. I frown briefly and hesitate in the doorway, curious to know what is going on. The table is set for three people. Our most expensive dinner service sits there waiting to be used. Knives and forks are neatly placed on each side of the pretty plates, and crystal wine glasses are placed slightly in front of the knives.
I turn around and walk to the kitchen. As I walk into the room, I start to ask, "What is going." My confused brain cuts off the words when I see my mom bending over into the oven. She pulls out an oven dish, and I smell the wonderful, delectable aroma of Lasagne. This is my favourite dish, which is only prepared for very, very special occasions. I quickly search my memory files and soon realize that today there is absolutely no reason for celebration.
My mom puts the dish onto the kitchen counter and then she turns around to me.
" Hi. How was school?" This is my mom's standard greeting and sometimes I think she does not really care what the answer is, so I usually just say, "Fine. How was your day?" I never really expect an answer to my question.
She surprises me by saying, "I had a great day. They are upgrading our network at work, so now it won't take me half the day to do the most simplest of tasks." She smiles, but I notice that the smile does not reach her eyes.
Her cheeks are flushed from the heat of the oven and her blonde hair, which she usually has in a bun at the back of her head, is slipping out of its confinement. Frizzy ends are standing out from her head and when the light falls on her head in just the right way, it looks like a halo of light.
She asks, "Would you mind taking the salad to the table?" Your dad will be here soon."
What is going on here? I wonder perplexed as I take the salad bowl and walk out of the kitchen toward the dining room. My dad always, always works late and he never, ever eats with us. We only eat at the dining table on Christmas Day. My mom and I usually eat from our knees, while we are slumped into the couches, watching TV.