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She thinks about a case she has on at work, a divorcing couple arguing primarily over a set of china plates but of course, really, over a betrayal. She shouldn’t have taken it on, she has over three hundred cases already. But Mrs. Vichare had looked at Jen in that first meeting and said, “If I have to give him those plates, I will have lost every single thing I love,” and Jen hadn’t been able to resist. She wishes she didn’t care so much – about divorcing strangers, about neighbors, about bloody pumpkins – but she does.
“What’re we having?” she adds. Her father shrugs, a happy shrug. “Whatever,” he says. “Another person just sort of makes life feel official, doesn’t it? Even if we just have beans on toast.” Jen knows exactly what he means.
He doesn’t go, though. Like with most things in parenthood, he wanted support, to be understood, rather than for her to take over. He sinks on to the sofa.
