Straight

By Kristen Trudo

It wasn’t until she stepped out of the taxi that she realized a white picket fence could make her spine go ice cold.

The kind of paralyzing chill that children without homes feel in the most threatening of winters.

Her mother was inside. This was the place she once called home.

* * *

She pushed back from the table. Walked to the cocktail cart.

Vodka. Straight.

Her gaze hung on her husband’s hands. Fumbling the fork.

And back to her daughter. Back to that ring finger. Back to that woman sitting beside her: downcast eyes.

Her daughter began to speak.

“No.” Another shot.