As he shoveled food into his mouth, Claire studied with detached interest those square hands, her father’s weapon of choice when she, or her mother, had ever gotten out of line. Fortunately for them, they had learned how to stay in line. Actual instances of physical abuse were rare in her memory, but those few had made a lasting impression. To this day, Claire still ducked when someone raised a hand too quickly. Old habits died hard.

Her mother refilled her glass, squeezing her shoulder in encouragement as she passed. Claire glanced appreciatively into her mother’s soft doe eyes. They had learned to communicate silently a long time ago. A touch. A look. A gesture. In her father’s presence, all three served as communication.

“I’m sorry about missing dinner last Sunday.” She decided to try to explain again. “I caught a bug at school—”

“You could have called.” The quickness with which his voice cut in, sharp as a whip, made her flinch. Another old habit.

Her mother eased into her chair, a wobbly smile on her lips as she removed her napkin from the table. “It’s all right, Mike. I don’t mind—”

“Don’t contradict me, Kathleen. You always stick up for her. Your precious little angel over there.” He jerked his head in Claire’s direction.

Her mother dipped her gaze and fiddled with the food on her plate but offered no further comment. She knew better. For that matter, so did Claire. She hadn’t perfected the art of invisibility for nothing, after all.

“You spent all day in there.” Her father jabbed his knife toward the kitchen, lips smacking around a mouthful of beef. “And Miss High-and-Mighty can’t even pick up a phone. But she sure as hell found the time to fix herself up like some kind of tramp.”

She recognized the stark misery in her mother’s face, the slump to her shoulders. She had seen it almost every day of her childhood. If not for her mother, Claire wouldn’t subject herself to these visits.

“Well. We’re glad you’re feeling better,” her mother ventured to say, darting an anxious glance at her husband, as if seeking permission to speak on his behalf.

He studied Claire beneath hooded eyes as he briskly mixed his beans and corn. “Go to the doctor?” he grumbled as though resenting his concern.

“Yes,” she answered, not exactly a lie. After all, she had spent that Friday evening in the emergency room. “I got some antibiotics and only missed work on Monday.”

Grudgingly, he nodded and returned his attention to his plate. “A woman your age shouldn’t be working at all—”

Claire bit her lip. She could recite the rest of this lecture from memory.