There are questions children ask that split your life into before and after. Not because they are loud, but because they reveal what your silence has cost them. I knew, the instant I heard her, that no answer I gave could undo the fact that the question had occurred to her at all.
“No, baby,” I said, and my voice sounded strange to me, too even, too controlled. “No. Of course not.”
She looked at me in the rearview mirror, and I saw the exact moment she decided whether to believe me. The problem with lying to protect your children is that they often know you are doing it long before they understand why.
“They said there weren’t enough chairs,” I added, hating the sentence as it left my mouth.
Lily lowered her eyes to the paper napkin still folded in her lap. “There were chairs in the dining room,” she said after a second. “I saw them when I went to the bathroom. Like six of them. Maybe more.”