The "Just Married" banner was still hanging in the hall. May 16, 1963. Two weeks into a marriage that was supposed to settle a debt between our grandfathers back in the Appalachian coal mines.
At dinner, the only sound was the clatter of silverware.
"I'm going to Houston," Julian said. He took a sip of water. "NASA is hiring. I'm leaving Monday."
His father put his fork down hard enough to chip the plate. "You have a position at the firm here. You have a wife."
His mother looked at me. She was waiting for me to cry, to grab his sleeve, to make the kind of scene a girl from the mountains was expected to make. Julian's jaw tightened.
"He should go," I said.
Nobody moved. Julian looked at me like I had just spoken in Greek.
"Flora," his mother whispered. "You don't understand."
I looked at my plate. The peas were getting cold. "I think I do."