At family dinner, my husband secretly emptied a tiny white packet into my soup, then sneered, “Eat it, Diane. Stop pretending to be sick for attention.”

Every Sunday at 5:30, the Foster family gathered at Judith and Harold’s home near Geist Reservoir.

Being late was frowned upon.

Missing dinner was nearly unthinkable.

That particular Sunday, Mark and I arrived three minutes late.

“You’re late,” Judith said when she opened the door.

“Traffic,” Mark answered.

From his recliner, Harold glanced over.

“There wasn’t any traffic.”

Judith gave him a look.

He shrugged and returned to his fishing program.