Their mother brought the rest of the food to the table and sat and their father put his phone face down in the way he did when the meal was starting, a habit he'd built when they were young and had kept, and for a few minutes the kitchen was just the four of them and the food and the grey morning outside the window and nothing else.
"You have practice today?" her father asked, looking at her.
"After school," she said. "Late. Maybe seven."
He nodded. "I'll pick you up."
"You don't have to, I can take the—"
"Seven is late," he said, in the same tone her mother used for *sit*, and she recognized it and let it go.
