Not because it was funny.
Because the alternative was screaming.
“Six.”
“Claire—”
“Six years?”
“Mom.”
Mason’s voice cut through everything.
I looked at him.
He set down his fork.
“Sit.”
I stared.
“Mason—”
“You are talking loudly.”
People nearby were looking.
Heat rushed to my face.
I slid into the booth beside David.
Mason considered me.
“I wanted to tell you tonight.”
“Why tonight?”
“Because I am eighteen.”
My chest tightened.
“You could have told me yesterday.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Yesterday I was seventeen.”
Hannah covered her mouth, perhaps hiding a nervous laugh.
I turned toward her.
She stopped.
Mason continued.
“At eighteen, you cannot call it another therapy goal.”
The sentence silenced me.
I felt as though someone had removed the floor beneath my chair.
“What?”
Mason looked down at his plate.
Then back at me.
“When I was little, everything I did became practice.”
David reached for my hand.
