The explosion that night had started over mashed potatoes.
It had ended with Harold saying, “If you can’t respect this house, get out of it.”
So now they were out.
June set the grocery bags down and rubbed her hands together. At sixty-one, she was lean and weathered and moved with the practical economy of someone who had spent her whole life making do. Her silver hair had slipped loose from its knot. She looked at the closed door once, then at Lena.
“Well,” she said, “they’ve made fools of themselves.”
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