It was reflex, really—an old habit from childhood, where if you acted like Kristen’s behavior was a joke you could pretend it didn’t matter, and if you pretended it didn’t matter, you could sometimes survive it.
But Kristen’s smile didn’t flicker.
“This is my house,” I said, and the coldness in my voice surprised even me. “It’s not a place for you to live.”
Before Kristen could respond, my father moved. Robert Parker had always had a talent for turning private disagreements into public lessons. He stepped into the center of the room like he was taking a stage, shoulders squared, jaw set, eyes already narrowed in anticipation of my compliance.
“Denise,” he said, “watch your tone.”
A few relatives shifted uncomfortably. Nobody spoke. They’d all grown up with Robert too, in a way—his sharpness, his certainty, his ability to frame himself as the reasonable one no matter what he demanded.
“Kristen is your sister,” he continued. “She’s struggling right now. She’s trying to start a new business.”
That word—struggling—was one he used the way other people used excuse.