Head of the table

Half unpacked. 

Woke up at my parent’s with only my mom occupying the large property, she on one side of the respectable house she and my father literally built with their own hands, while I was on the other. We came together in the kitchen. She cooked us eggs and bacon as I made small talk about music. 
Then she asked me to sit down and eat. 

“Why don’t you sit in dad’s seat,” she said. I moved into the seat I’d never sat in before, fell silent and swallowed the emotions that came up. “Do you mind if we say grace,” my Mormon mother asked me. We’d never eaten a meal at home without praying first. 

I reached over and gave her forearm a squeeze. “Please do. Really, mom, I’d really love that.”