The table fell silent.
My mother stared at me as if a chair had spoken. “I’m sorry?”
“No. Bethany is not moving into my home.”
Bethany’s face hardened. “Your home. Listen to you.”
“Yes,” I said, looking at her. “My home.”
Dad leaned forward. “Family helps family.”
“Family asks,” I said. “It doesn’t assign.”
“She’s your sister.”
“She’s twenty-nine.”
“She has not had the same advantages you had,” Mom snapped.
I almost laughed. It would have sounded ugly, so I swallowed it.
“We grew up in the same house,” I said. “Same parents. Same schools. Same neighborhood.”
“That is not the same as having the same personality,” my mother said. “Things came easier for you.”
“They did not come easier for me. You just paid less attention when they were hard.”
Her face changed then. Not guilt. Outrage. Guilt might have helped.
“That is a cruel thing to say.”
“It’s an accurate thing to say.”
Bethany shoved her chair back slightly. “You’ve always thought you were better than me.”
“No,” I said. “I’ve always thought I was responsible for myself. You should try it.”
“Christina,” my father barked.
Heads turned at nearby tables. My mother noticed and lowered her voice, which somehow made it sharper.