Bobby places the silver tray on the table, next to the carrots. “Honey!” he yells and he sits. He takes in the sight of his children, they are adults now, Dee is a woman, she can’t stop reveling in it, all the time he’s heard of girls blossoming he now understands the word, the sentiment, how male it is, how sexist it is, because boys don’t blossom into men, they become men, it’s far more direct, expected, but women are flowers, and sometimes flowers don’t quite make it, and men will always speak of women with a poetry that says more about what men want and less about the women themselves. I’m a feminist, Bobby thinks. “Where’s your mother?” he asks.