I push soggy layers of pasta and dry beef back and forth on my plate, trying to guess whether the dish in front of me is actually lasagna, or if the cook realized too late that all they had was ketchup and mozzarella and decided to just go with it.

I pick up a forkful, examine it, then set it back down again.

Just because something is called lasagna on a menu doesn’t make it lasagna. But then again, it’s hard to enjoy. . .whatever this is, when my husband–​­soon-to-be-ex-husband–made what I enthusiastically dubbed The World’s Best Lasagna.

I used to beg him for the recipe, but he’d just ­smile—​­the one with the dimples that made my knees go ­weak—​­and tell me that if he shared it, then I wouldn’t ask him to make it for me anymore. Which seemed romantic at the time. A tacit declaration that he’d always be there.

But I guess that was just another lie. One of many.

“Roslyn? You’ve hardly touched your food,” comes Grammy’s voice, drawing me out of my thoughts and back into the restaurant where I’m seated under the glare of fluorescent lighting and my grandmother’s gaze.

I’ve been dodging family dinner for months, cycling through numerous excuses. Not feeling well. Doing taxes. Writing deadline. But after the fourth­ last-​­minute cancellation, I figured I couldn’t stave it off much longer. Which is how I ended up at a strip mall Italian eatery sitting across from my grandparents and siblings while they pepper me with questions I don’t know how to answer.