It was not dinner.
At least, not to people like me.
I had moved to a neighboring state for college, close enough to visit home when I could afford the trip but far enough that every emergency felt unbearable.
It was not dinner.
I had been waitressing at a restaurant near campus for almost a year, balancing evening shifts with classes and sending whatever I could spare home.
My mother and I had always been close, even though affection didn’t come naturally to her. Evelyn was stern, orderly, and proper about everything.
She planned appointments weeks in advance, kept every receipt in a labeled folder, and called me at precisely eight every Sunday evening. Even her kitchen towels had assigned places.
A private detective wanted money we didn’t have.