Nobody talks at dinner; their heads are down, staring at devices in their hands. The other hands hold utensils, and they work in motion from the plates to the mouths, making occasional noises.
I bring a spoonful of the tomato bisque to my lips, “I miss the old times,” muttering under my breath.
All heads at the table turn in my direction. I quickly cover my mouth, “I’m sorry…” My son’s face turns pale, and my husband’s red. My daughter’s mouth agape.
Knocks at the door, and we all gasp.