I placed a mug in front of him and sat across from him at the same table where he had once done fourth-grade math homework while eating apple slices.
“You told me I wasn’t invited to dinner,” I said. “You said your wife didn’t want me there.”
He shut his eyes for a second.
“Mom, it was stupid. I know that. Marissa was upset, the house was full, the whole evening was—”
“You sent it.”
He opened his eyes.
“Yes.”
“Then don’t explain it to me as if it happened in bad weather.”
He looked down.
The silence between us stretched.
Finally he said, “I was trying to keep the peace.”
“With your wife.”
He didn’t answer.
“And the easiest way to do that,” I went on, “was to humiliate your mother.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
I leaned back in my chair and looked at him.
“Then tell me what it was like.”
He opened his mouth, closed it, and tried again.
“We were having clients over,” he said. “Marissa was stressed. She said she wanted the night to go a certain way. She said you and she hadn’t really—”
“Hadn’t really what?”
“Been getting along.”
I gave a small nod.
“There it is.”
“Mom, please. Don’t make this bigger than it is.”
I almost smiled at that.
“The message did not make this bigger, Garrett. It made it plain.”
He frowned.