He tells the family he’ll be taking another trip. This time to Ireland. He glances at me briefly, then looks at the kids, explains how it’s for work, how his company is doing work for an Irish company. How there are a lot of tech companies in Ireland these days. Maybe he’ll bring them a souvenir. The kids squeal at the thought. Emily wants an Irish jig dress. Sally’s hoping for a soccer jersey. The boys will take anything. I jam my hands under my legs, feel my lips press together, can see the rise and fall of my sweater as my heart fills with smoke. Ireland, really? Once again, Tom’s playing chicken with me. At each end of the dinner table we’re two cars headed toward each other at full speed. Who will be the first to swerve? In this case, who will be the first to leave the table? He’s poking at me, taking easy shots, hitting me where it hurts, but I’m not budging. “That’s nice,” I say in my forced-pleasant voice. “When’s that?” “In a few weeks,” he says.
