Grace. The father bowed his head. Who would like to say grace? His wife, children, nobody responded. They all sat there in silence while the roast beef and mashed potatoes got cold.

Nobody? Dad asked. Nobody is thankful? Am I the only one? All kept their heads down as the old man spoke. Fine. I’ll pray, he proclaimed. He let out a heavy sigh of disappointment. 

Our Father in heaven. Thank you for this meal before us. We pray that it goes to the  nourishment of our bodies so that we can serve you here on earth. In Jesus’ name, we pray. Amen.

Please pass the vegetables. The insurance salesman asked his son. A bowl was handed to him. It was not the mixed vegetables. It was a bowl of mashed potatoes.

Remember, dear. We pass from left to right. Eventually, it’ll get to you, the thin wife said.

Sorry, honey. I forgot. The brother and sister smiled at each other. Missy, the Retriever, circled the table. Missy, the father said. Go on. Get.

Paul. Go get a Milk Bone and let Missy out in the backyard, please. The son folded his napkin and led the dog outside. There you go, Robert. He’s outside now. Dad stared down at his plate.

It was quiet while they ate. Only the sounds of forks and knives sawing on Fiesta Ware could be heard.

Nice meal, dear, Robert said. Now, if you’ll excuse me.

Everything alright?

Yes.

In the garage was an old piece of rope in Robert’s Craftsman tool chest. He knew exactly what drawer it was in. He looked at it every day after work. 

Holding the rope in his hands, he made a noose with a tight knot, flung the rope over the garage beam, as the father of two sat on the backend of his Dodge Ram pickup. All was set. The rope scratched his throat. He held his  breath and jumped off the truck.