We’d been doing so well all day, Shad and I had even helped Grandma prepare Sunday dinner without bickering, when I mentioned that Brown Sugar Meatloaf had always been Mom’s favorite—and brought the whole thing crashing down again.
“You just had to do it—didn’t you?” said Shad, seething, as Grandma went into full Mr. Bill mode, her voice high and quavering as she began quoting Psalms and disappeared into the kitchen, slamming dishes, banging cupboards. “There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the older order of things has passed away—Shad! Come get the salad.”
“Jerk,” said Shad, glaring at me over the candles.
He untucked his napkin and joined her in the kitchen, leaving me alone with the Boston Pops and the meat loaf.
“I didn’t mean to ...” I started to say, int
