On Sunday dinner night, under the warm yellow light in the house at the end of the cul-de-sac, my daughter-in-law dropped a cold line: “You’ll eat whatever’s left after Max is done.” Then she glanced at her pampered dog in the corner. The table let out an awkward laugh, my son stayed silent. I was 73. I set my fork down, lifted her untouched steak, carried it to the golden retriever’s bowl, and sat back down. No one knew it was the last calm before the storm.
The laugh that followed her words wasn’t the warm kind that made you want to lean in. It snapped across…