“This is very good antipasto,” Potts said. “You can take some home with you,” Grandma said. “Where do you live? Are you local?” “I live with Stephanie,” Potts said. Everyone stopped eating and looked at me. “Pay no attention,” I said. “It’s the PTSD.” My father accepted that as a decent explanation and returned to his meatballs. My mother poured herself more wine. My grandmother wouldn’t let it go.
