It is quiet at the breakfast table that morning. Mary spreads jam evenly onto another crumpet, the clink of the knife against the jam jar echoing hollowly in the silence. Tom, the only other family member still eating, glances at her briefly, then returns his gaze to his newspaper.
"Just because things have ended with Henry doesn't mean you need to act as if he's died." Mary says, wiping raspberry jam from the corner of her mouth with her napkin.
Tom lowers his paper and looks at her. "What?"
"You heard me. Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about." Mary's eyes meet his, and there is a spark in them of irritation and pride. "You and everyone else in this house have been treating me as if I'm a widow all over again. On the rare occasion that one of you speaks to me, you act as if I'm a China doll that might break at any moment." She takes another bite, chews quickly, and swallows. "The fact is, I am perfectly fine with my decision. Happy, even."
Tom takes a sip of his tea. "If you say so."
"And what is that supposed to mean?" Mary's voice rises.
Tom's eyebrows knit together angrily, and he opens his mouth to speak, then closes it. His face grows calm. "Mary," he says softly, almost affectionately. "It's too early for this." He averts his eyes from her steely gaze. "I shouldn't have replied like that."
"No, you shouldn't have." Mary stands abruptly and walks swiftly from the room, shoes clacking against the floor.
