I was making coffee in my own kitchen outside Houston, the one I had lived in for over 30 years, when my daughter-in-law, wearing my apron and standing over my heirloom cast-iron skillet, casually said, “You can eat later, this is our family breakfast.” My son did not say a word, and the next morning, I left an envelope on the table that changed the air inside the house.
By the time I turned onto my street that Friday afternoon, the ice in Patricia Bennett’s sweet tea had already…