prose -m.l/d.l

the atmosphere in the house is so cold. the m.l can sense it without realizing it. she sits alone in her room and prays. they can hear her singing in her low monotone and when they pass her room, they see her with the Bible in her hand, on a corner of her bed, here, in her son's house, where she should, traditionally at least, feel comfortable enough to order (no, never!), ask (yes, if done nicely, gently), request (politely, nonchalantly), a family prayer. but will it happen? if she did ask, would they oblige? will everyone, mother, son, children simply flock at the appointed time to the drawing room and sit, ready to sing and listen to scripture, or will the mother sulk and retreat (or worse, burst into an opinionated NO), and will the children laugh and pout at the same time, from being made to sit in one place for 30 minutes at a stretch, their nintendos and puzzles vying for attention but a few feet away on the carpet? as for the son, he confuses her the most. will he put his foot down and insist, like a man should, or slink away like a fox shamed out of its hiding place? or will he make a jjoke of it or make a convincing excuse while still sitting in front of the TV with his eyes on his laptop? she has never felt as alone as now, at thismoment when she cannot ask if any one would like to pray with her. she would like to rush home,or vanish, or expand into something sprawling, something so imposing, nobody can deny or refuse it.