Biscuits were in the oven. She had set out three plates and three cups. Three. Thomas went to the cabinet. He took down a fourth plate and a fourth cup and carried them to the table and set them beside the other three.
Clara turned at the sound. She looked at the table. She looked at him. Sit down this morning. He did not frame it as a question.
He did not soften it with explanation or wrap it inside a reason she could refuse. He said it the way he drove a fence post, straight down with everything behind it. Clara did not move. The boys are not up yet. I know.
Thomas pulled out the chair at the place where the fourth plate sat. He pulled it out and left it there. Open, angled toward her. I have watched you feed them before you feed yourself every morning and every evening since you walked through that door. I have watched you eat standing up and take what is left after everyone else is done, and I have said nothing because I did not know how to say it right.
He was not a man who made speeches. The longest thing he had spoken in a month was a prayer over Nettie's grave marker when he replaced the wildflowers the wind had scattered. You sit at this table. You eat when we eat. You do not stand.
Not in this house. Not anymore. Clara's hands were still at her sides. She looked at the chair. She looked at the four plates arranged on the table.
She looked at Thomas and in her face he could see the argument forming. The reasons she should refuse. The long years of believing she was the kind of woman who stood. I was hired to keep house. You were hired to be here.