Invitation Only

"Parents have their own language—built from decades of shared glances and half-sentences. The hardest part is realising you're not fluent in it."

The lamb emerged from the oven in a cloud of fragrant steam.

Mum had appeared from the bedroom perhaps twenty minutes earlier, moving into the kitchen with that particular energy she brought to the final stages of meal preparation — focused, efficient, quietly commanding the space. She'd checked the meat with a thermometer, nodded once in satisfaction, and begun the choreography of bringing everything together.

I noticed, but didn't comment, that she was still wearing her church clothes.

Dad appeared shortly after, similarly attired. His pressed trousers and polished shoes caught my attention as he moved to the cutting board to slice bread, the methodical rhythm of the knife providing a steady backdrop to the kitchen's increasing activity.

He hadn't changed either.

The observation lodged somewhere in my mind, joining the other small anomalies I'd been cataloguing all day. The loaded glances. The silent communications. The quality of attention that seemed directed somewhere beyond the ordinary concerns of Sunday afternoon.

But there was no time to examine it properly. The meal was reaching that critical point where everything needed to happen at once, and standing around analysing your parents' wardrobe choices wasn't going to get the potatoes on the table.

"Jerome, can you do the gravy?" Mum asked, transferring the lamb to the carving board. "The drippings are ready."

"On it."

I moved to the roasting tin, still hot from the oven, and assessed the situation. The lamb had rendered beautifully, leaving a shallow pool of golden drippings studded with caramelised bits of garlic and rosemary. This was the foundation — the flavour base that would transform flour and stock into something worth eating.

The potatoes had been rough-edged and tossed into the hot drippings earlier, their surfaces now golden and crackling with the promise of perfect crispness. The carrots had softened and sweetened, their edges caramelised where they'd touched the hot metal. I transferred both to a serving dish, then carefully tipped the remaining drippings from the roasting tin into a saucepan, using a spatula to scrape up the caramelised bits that clung to the bottom — the fond, where all the flavour lived. I set the saucepan on the stovetop and turned the burner to medium heat.

"Charles!" Mum called toward the hallway. "Dinner's nearly ready. Come set the table."

A muffled response drifted back, the words indistinct but the tone suggesting reluctant compliance. A moment later, Charles appeared in the kitchen doorway, his hair somehow even more chaotic than it had been an hour ago, his expression carrying the mild grievance of someone whose important activities had been interrupted.

"I was in the middle of something."

"You were in the middle of not studying for your maths test," Mum said, without looking up from the lamb she was beginning to carve. "The table needs setting."

"Jerome could do it."

"Jerome is making the gravy. You're setting the table. This is how division of labour works."

Charles sighed with theatrical weariness but moved toward the cabinet where the Sunday dishes lived. The mismatched collection emerged piece by piece — plates that didn't quite coordinate, serving bowls with chips in the glaze, the gravy boat that had belonged to someone's grandmother and now occupied our kitchen through some chain of inheritance nobody fully remembered.

I sprinkled flour into the saucepan, whisking it into the hot drippings until it formed a paste. The roux bubbled and darkened, releasing that particular smell of fat and flour transforming into something more. I added stock gradually, whisking continuously, watching the mixture loosen and smooth as the liquid incorporated.

The kitchen had become a symphony of parallel activities. Mum carved the lamb, the meat falling away from the bone in thick, pink-centred slices. Dad arranged bread in a basket with more care than the task strictly required, his attention seeming to drift between the loaf and something else I couldn't see. Charles laid out cutlery with the minimum acceptable effort, the clatter of forks and knives punctuating the softer sounds of cooking.

And beneath it all, Millie had positioned herself strategically near the carving board, her eyes tracking every movement of the knife with an intensity that suggested she believed she might be included in the meal if she maintained sufficient vigilance.

"Millie," Mum said, without breaking her rhythm. "You know the rules."

Millie's tail wagged hopefully, as if perhaps the rules had changed since last Sunday.

"The rules haven't changed," I said, reading her expression. "No lamb for dogs. Even dogs who make very convincing faces."

She shifted her attention to me, her expression somehow managing to convey both wounded dignity and continued optimism. I'd rescued her, after all. Surely that earned some consideration when it came to the distribution of roast meat.

"Later," I murmured, quiet enough that Mum wouldn't hear. "Maybe."

The gravy had reached that perfect consistency — thick enough to coat a spoon, thin enough to pour. I tasted it, added a pinch more salt, tasted again. Not bad. Not quite as good as Mum's, but close enough that no one would complain.

"Gravy's done," I announced, pouring it carefully into the waiting boat.

"Potatoes and carrots?"

"Already plated."

"Bread?"

"Ready," Dad confirmed, setting the basket on the table.

"Charles, are we missing anything?"

Charles surveyed his work with the critical eye of someone who wanted to be done as quickly as possible. "Water glasses. I forgot water glasses."

"Then get water glasses."

He retrieved four glasses from the cabinet and distributed them around the table, filling each from the jug that lived in the refrigerator. The final pieces of the puzzle clicking into place, the meal assembling itself through the accumulated efforts of four people who had done this together hundreds of times.

"Right," Mum said, carrying the platter of carved lamb to the table. "I think we're ready."

We sat in our usual configuration.

Dad at the head of the table, his back to the window where the afternoon light was beginning to soften toward the golden hour. Mum to his right, closest to the kitchen in case anything needed fetching. Charles and me across from each other, the same positions we'd occupied since we were old enough to sit in regular chairs instead of high chairs.

The table looked good — the kind of Sunday spread that appeared effortless but actually represented hours of planning and preparation. The lamb glistening on its platter, pink and fragrant. The potatoes golden and crackling in their dish. The carrots bright against the white ceramic. The gravy boat steaming gently, its contents thick and glossy. The bread basket, the butter dish, the small bowl of mint sauce that Mum made from scratch every time even though Dad was the only one who used it.

Charles bowed his head before anyone could prompt him.

The movement was so quick, so automatic, that it caught me off guard — that sudden snap into reverence that seemed to bypass conscious thought entirely. His eyes closed, his hands folded in his lap, his entire posture shifting into the configuration of prayer before Mum had even finished adjusting her napkin.

The rest of us followed, the particular hush of a family preparing to offer thanks settling over the table.

"Jerome," Mum said quietly, "would you?"

I closed my eyes and let the words come.

"Our Heavenly Father, we thank Thee for this day. For the chance to worship together, and to learn from the lessons shared with us."

The familiar phrases flowed without conscious effort, the structure of a lifetime's prayers providing the scaffolding. But something felt different today. The words seemed to carry more weight, as if the questions I'd been wrestling with all day had followed me to the table and were listening alongside everyone else.

"We thank Thee for this food, prepared with love, and for the hands that made it. We ask Thee to bless it to nourish and strengthen our bodies."

I thought about what Charles had said in the kitchen. About performance and packaging. About the line between faith and pretending being blurrier than anyone admitted.

Was this prayer real? Was I actually talking to someone, or just reciting words into the void because that's what was expected?

"We thank Thee for our family. For the chance to be together. For the bonds that connect us, even when we don't always understand each other."

That last part wasn't standard. Wasn't part of the usual template. But it felt true in a way that mattered, so I let it stand.

"Please bless those who are struggling, wherever they are. Help us to notice when others need support, and to offer what we can, even in small and quiet ways."

Nate's face flashed in my mind. The conversation in the corridor. The weight of carrying someone else's secret.

"We say these things in the name of Jesus Christ, amen."

"Amen," the others echoed, and the prayer was complete.

The serving dishes began their circuit around the table, each person claiming their portion of the communal meal. Lamb slices transferred to plates. Potatoes distributed with the particular care reserved for the crispiest pieces. Carrots spooned alongside. Gravy poured in quantities that varied according to individual preference — Dad taking barely any, Charles drowning his entire plate.

For a few minutes, the only sounds were the soft clinks of cutlery and the quiet appreciation of food being consumed. The lamb was good — tender and flavourful, the rosemary and garlic working together the way they were supposed to. The potatoes had achieved that perfect balance of crispy exterior and fluffy interior. Even my gravy passed without comment, which was its own form of approval.

But something felt off.

It took me a moment to identify it — the subtle wrongness that had been nagging at the edge of my awareness since we'd sat down. Then I realised what it was.

Mum and Dad kept looking at each other.

Not obviously. Not in any way that would draw attention if you weren't specifically watching for it. Just small glances across the table, brief moments of eye contact that seemed to communicate something neither of them was saying aloud.

Charles noticed it too. I caught him watching them, his fork paused halfway to his mouth, his expression sharpening with the particular attention he brought to things that interested him.

"So," he said, breaking the comfortable silence with deliberate casualness, "Lisa says American church dances are like high school prom. Lights, DJs, corsages. All that."

Mum looked up from her plate, the distraction apparently welcome. "Corsages?"

"Apparently it's a thing. You buy flowers and pin them to your date." Charles stabbed a potato with more force than necessary. "Very formal. Very American."

"Is that something you'd like?" Dad asked, his tone carrying that particular dryness he deployed when gently teasing. "Corsages at stake dances?"

"Oh, totally. I've always wanted to pin flowers to a stranger." Charles's delivery was deadpan, but his eyes sparkled with the enjoyment of his own performance. "Really adds to the spiritual atmosphere. Nothing says 'wholesome youth activity' like fumbling with a boutonnière while trying not to accidentally stab your date."

"I don't think you're supposed to stab your date," I offered. "That's generally frowned upon."

"The stabbing is accidental. The corsage pins are very sharp. Lisa showed me pictures — there's a whole technique to it. You have to angle the pin just right or you end up drawing blood."

"That seems unnecessarily complicated," Mum said.

"That's what I said! But apparently it's tradition. You can't have prom without corsages, and you can't have corsages without the risk of minor injury." Charles shook his head with exaggerated dismay. "American culture is wild."

"We have our own traditions," Dad pointed out. "They probably think meat pies at football matches are strange."

"Meat pies at football matches are civilised. Practical. You can eat them with one hand and hold your drink with the other." Charles gestured with his fork to emphasise the point. "Corsages require two hands, advance planning, and a basic understanding of floral arrangement. Completely different level of commitment."

The conversation had the easy rhythm of family banter, the kind of exchange that filled Sunday dinners with warmth and connection. But I kept watching my parents, kept noticing the glances that passed between them when they thought no one was looking.

And I kept noticing that neither of them had changed out of their formal clothes.

"Are you two going somewhere?" I asked, the question emerging before I'd fully decided to ask it.

The effect was immediate and unmistakable.

Mum's fork paused mid-motion. Dad's eyes flicked toward her, then away. A beat of silence — just a fraction of a second, but long enough to be noticeable — before Mum set down her cutlery and folded her hands on the table.

"Actually, yes," she said. "We need to talk to you both about something."

Charles and I exchanged a glance. His eyebrows rose fractionally — a silent communication that said I noticed it too — before we both returned our attention to our parents.

The quality of the air had shifted. The easy banter of a moment ago had dissolved, replaced by something more serious. More weighted. I set down my own fork, giving them my full attention.

Dad cleared his throat. "We have a meeting tonight. At the temple."

"On a Sunday?" Charles said, the surprise evident in his voice. "The temple's not open on Sundays."

"It's a special meeting," Mum said carefully. "By invitation only."

The words hung in the air, their significance not quite landing. I knew enough about church administration to understand that special meetings happened occasionally — stake conferences, leadership training, that sort of thing. But at the temple? On a Sunday evening?

"What kind of meeting?" I asked.

Another glance between them. That silent negotiation I'd been watching all day, the wordless conversation I couldn't access.

"We're not entirely sure," Dad admitted. "Bishop Hahn extended the invitation after church today. He said it was important, but he couldn't give us details."

"He couldn't, or he wouldn't?" Charles asked.

"Does it matter?"

"Kind of, yeah." Charles leaned back in his chair, his expression caught somewhere between curiosity and suspicion. "If he couldn't tell you, that suggests some kind of confidentiality thing. Priesthood leadership stuff, maybe. But if he wouldn't tell you, that suggests something else entirely."

"Charles," Mum said, her tone carrying a gentle warning.

"I'm just saying. It's unusual. You have to admit it's unusual."

It was unusual. More than unusual — it was unprecedented, at least in my experience. The temple was closed on Sundays. Everyone knew that. It was one of the basic facts of church life, as fundamental as sacrament meeting or home teaching. And yet here were my parents, dressed in their formal clothes, announcing that they'd been invited to a special meeting at a building that wasn't supposed to be open.

"Does this have something to do with what Bishop Hahn said in sacrament meeting?" I asked. "About standing on the precipice of a new chapter?"

The words landed with visible impact. Mum's expression shifted — a flicker of something that might have been surprise, or might have been confirmation, quickly suppressed.

"We don't know," she said. "We honestly don't know. All we know is that we've been asked to attend, and we felt we should accept."

"But you don't know what it's about."

"No."

"And you're just... going anyway? Without knowing what you're agreeing to?"

The question came out sharper than I'd intended. Something about the situation was bothering me — not the secrecy itself, but the way my parents seemed to be accepting it. The way they were preparing to walk into something unknown without demanding more information first.

"Jerome," Dad said, his voice carrying that particular steadiness he deployed when he wanted to be taken seriously. "There are some things we take on faith. Some invitations we accept because we trust the source, even when we don't understand the details."

"But the temple being open on a Sunday—"

"Is unusual, yes. We're aware." He held my gaze, his expression calm but firm. "We're not asking you to understand. We're just telling you that we'll be out this evening, and we wanted you to know why."

The silence that followed was uncomfortable. I could feel the tension I'd introduced, the ripple of my challenge spreading across the table. Charles was watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read — something between support and caution, as if he agreed with my questions but wasn't sure pushing harder was wise.

"What time do you need to leave?" I asked finally, retreating to logistics as a way to defuse the moment.

Mum's shoulders relaxed slightly. "Soon."

"So we're eating early."

"Yes. Hence the—" She gestured at the meal spread before us. "Earlier than usual."

That explained the accelerated timeline, at least. The roast at four instead of the usual five-thirty or six. The sense of urgency beneath the familiar Sunday rhythms.

"What about us?" Charles asked. "Are we supposed to come too?"

"No," Dad said. "This invitation was specifically for us. Adults only, apparently."

"So Jerome and I are just... here? All evening?"

"You're sixteen and twenty-one. I think you can manage an evening without supervision." Mum's tone had recovered some of its usual warmth, the tension beginning to dissipate. "There's plenty of lamb if you get hungry later. And I expect the kitchen to still be standing when we get back."

"No promises," Charles said, but the deflection was automatic, his attention clearly still processing the larger situation.

I returned to my meal, cutting a piece of lamb without really tasting it. My mind was churning through the implications of what we'd just learned.

A special meeting at the temple. On a Sunday evening. Invitation only. Connected, maybe, to Bishop Hahn's cryptic announcement in sacrament meeting. My parents going willingly, even eagerly, despite not knowing what awaited them.

A divine calling awaits.

That's what he'd said. Standing at the pulpit, his voice cracking with emotion. We are standing on the precipice of a new chapter.

I looked at my parents — really looked, trying to see past the familiar surfaces to whatever was happening beneath. They were worried, I realised. Not fearful, not anxious, but carrying something that weighed on them. A knowledge or an anticipation that they couldn't or wouldn't share.

And yet they were also... peaceful. That was the strange part. Beneath the weight, there was something that looked almost like readiness. As if they'd been preparing for something without knowing what, and now that the something had arrived, they were willing to meet it.

The rest of the meal passed in relative quiet. The earlier banter didn't return, though Charles made a few attempts to revive it with observations about his maths test and increasingly elaborate plans for avoiding it. The food was consumed, seconds were taken, the dishes began their gradual accumulation near the sink.

Through it all, my parents kept exchanging those glances. Those silent communications in a language I couldn't speak.

The washing up proceeded with unusual efficiency.

Mum and Dad had retreated to their bedroom — ostensibly to finish preparing, though I suspected they also wanted time alone before whatever awaited them. Charles and I divided the kitchen labour without negotiation, falling into patterns established over years of shared chores.

He washed. I dried. The plates and cutlery and serving dishes passed between us in a steady stream, emerging clean from the soapy water and disappearing into their designated cupboards and drawers.

"So that was weird," Charles said, his voice low enough not to carry beyond the kitchen.

"Which part?"

"All of it. The temple on a Sunday. The secret meeting. Mum and Dad acting like they've been inducted into some kind of..." He trailed off, searching for the right word. "I don't know. Secret society? Priesthood conspiracy?"

"It's not a conspiracy."

"I didn't say it was. I said they're acting like it is." He scrubbed at the roasting tin with more force than necessary. "All those looks they kept giving each other. The way they wouldn't really answer your questions. Something's happening, and they're not telling us what."

I couldn't argue with that. The strangeness of the day had been building since the car ride home, accumulating like pressure in a closed system. And now, with the revelation about the temple meeting, it had reached a point where ignoring it felt impossible.

"Maybe it's stake business," I offered. "Dad's in the High Priests. Maybe there's something happening at that level that requires confidentiality."

"On a Sunday? At the temple?" Charles shook his head. "Stake business happens in the stake centre. That's why it's called the stake centre."

"I'm just saying there might be an explanation that isn't supernatural."

"I'm not saying it's supernatural. I'm saying it's weird." He handed me the roasting tin, now scrubbed clean of its accumulated layers. "And I'm saying our parents are being secretive, which isn't like them. Usually they tell us everything. Too much, sometimes. Remember when Mum explained tithing settlement in detail and we had to pretend we cared about the family budget for like an hour?"

I remembered. It had been excruciating.

"This feels different," Charles continued. "This feels like they want to tell us but can't. Or won't. Or something."

The kitchen was nearly restored to order now, the evidence of the meal gradually disappearing. I hung the tea towel on its hook and leaned against the counter, considering.

"What do you think Bishop Hahn meant?" I asked. "In his talk. About the new chapter and the divine calling."

Charles was quiet for a moment, draining the sink and wiping down the bench. "I don't know. But I think Mum and Dad do. Or at least they think they do."

"Yeah."

"And I think whatever's happening tonight is related."

"Yeah."

We stood in the clean kitchen, the fading afternoon light casting long shadows across the floor. Through the window, I could see the backyard settling into its evening configuration — the shadows lengthening, the birds beginning their twilight chorus, the first hints of dusk gathering at the edges of the sky.

Millie appeared in the doorway, her expression carrying that particular combination of hope and expectation that meant she'd been waiting long enough and was ready to advocate for her interests.

"Someone wants something," Charles observed.

"Someone always wants something." I pushed off from the counter and crossed to where Millie stood, her tail beginning to wag as she sensed the shift in my attention. "I should take her out. Before it gets too dark."

"You just want to escape."

"I want to walk the dog. The escaping is a bonus."

Charles almost smiled. "Fair enough. I'll be in my room, definitely not studying for my maths test."

"Your dedication to academic excellence is inspiring."

"I try."

He disappeared down the hallway, and a moment later the familiar thump of his music resumed, slightly louder than before — perhaps a statement, perhaps just habit. Millie watched him go, then returned her attention to me with renewed intensity.

"I know," I said. "We're going. Just let me grab my jacket."

The jacket was in my wardrobe, a worn fleece that had seen better days but still served its purpose on winter evenings. I retrieved it, along with Millie's lead from its hook by the front door. She was already there waiting, her body trembling with barely contained excitement at the prospect of adventure.

As I clipped the lead to her collar, I heard my parents' voices from their bedroom — low, indistinct, the particular murmur of conversation I couldn't make out. Whatever they were discussing, it wasn't meant for my ears.

The precipice of a new chapter.

I didn't know what it meant. Didn't know what awaited them at the temple tonight, or what awaited any of us in the days and weeks to come. The questions I'd been carrying all day remained unanswered, multiplying rather than resolving.

But right now, there was a dog who needed walking and an evening that needed filling. The larger mysteries could wait.

"Ready?" I asked Millie, though we both knew the answer.

Her response was immediate — a surge toward the door, her whole body communicating eagerness and impatience in equal measure.

I opened the door, and the winter air rushed in to greet us. Cool and crisp, carrying the smell of eucalyptus and the distant sound of someone's television through an open window. The ordinary textures of a Sunday evening in Craigmore, unchanged by whatever extraordinary things might be happening behind closed doors and in temple meeting rooms.

"Let's go," I said.

And we did.