I had spent the afternoon at a cardiac rehabilitation appointment. My chest felt tight from the cold weather, and the new medication had left a metallic taste in my mouth.
“Kendra,” I said, “you know what the cardiologist told me. Please take it outside.”
She flicked ash into the stainless-steel sink.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be so sensitive.”
“This is my home.”
That was when my son looked up from the kitchen table.
Daniel was forty-two, though anger made him resemble the sullen teenager who once blamed a teacher for every bad grade. A crushed beer can sat beside his elbow. His phone glowed near his plate, displaying a sports score he considered more important than the conversation in front of him.
“Dad, stop,” he said.
Continue on the next page:
