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... son was angry, they would’ve hit the table or thrown the cup to the ground to show their emotions.

But he could not. He had less and less strength in his upper body. Even holding something was hard for him. All he could do was use a spoon to drink tea from his cup or turn a book. Hitting the table or throwing down the tea cup would for one, take a lot of energy, and two, be a waste of it.

His energy and time were the same. Both were very precious and could not be squandered.

...

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“Now… where should I put you both?” he asked casually, not expecting a reply. “It’s regretful that I only have one chandelier.”

“Underneath my bed? No, no, too dirty. My dust bunnies don’t deserve this,” Atticus mused to himself. “The mantlepiece? How about the vanity table? I suppose if I lop off one of your heads I could mount it over… Wife, which head do you want to stare at while you do your hair?”

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