“For being five minutes late you all may—” She stops short, finally noticing the table. Her eyes go wide and her red lips part in shock. No one told her that Beckett would be here tonight. And I know she’s mentally counting each chair. How they’re all filled with each of her children. She fights tears, eyes reddened, and her hands brace the top of the chair, still standing. “What are you doing here?” she asks Beckett. “I thought you had a performance.”
