But she was still not finished.
“I’m imagining the large photograph we might hang at home.”
“The family album.”
“Forty years from now.”
I stared at her.
“You don’t want Ethan’s face in them.”
Margaret said nothing.
That silence was an answer.
Six different sentences exploded into my head.
That’s my brother.
My father is dead.
What exactly about Ethan’s face offends your decorating plans?
Do you think Down syndrome ruins photographs?
Why does your hallway get a vote in my wedding?
Would you say this if he were sitting here?
I opened my mouth.
Under the table, Adrian took my hand.
One squeeze.
Then he said:
“We’ll work something out.”
I turned toward him so quickly my chair almost moved.
Margaret relaxed.
For one horrible second, I thought Adrian meant what she wanted him to mean.
Then I saw his expression.
He was furious.
Not uncertain.
Not embarrassed.
Furious.
His thumb pressed against my hand.
Wait.
That was what he was telling me.
Not because Margaret deserved protection.
Because Ethan did.
If I exploded in that dining room, Margaret would become the story.
The argument would spread.
Phone calls.
