A family endures a dinner with much too much drama, in which the most otherworldly event is the most mundane.
 

    “I don’t ever remember laughing as a child.”
    Karen sighed and set down her fork, staring across the table at her eldest daughter.  “Christine, that’s ridiculous.  You laughed plenty as a child.  I have pictures of you laughing.”
    “No, Mother!” Christine shouted, slapping an open palm on the tabletop, causing their plates and glasses to rattle.  “I mean on the inside.  I don’t ever remember laughing on the inside.”
    Taking a sip of her tea and smoothing the napkin on her lap, Karen said, “I don’t know what you want me to say. Chris.”
    “I just want you to admit it, Mother.  Just stop all the b.s. and admit it.”
    “Admit what, honey?”
    “What do you think?” Christine said, waving her arms wildly above her head.  “That you have no maternal instincts.  That you were not equipped to be a mother.  That you probably never should have had children.”