Cranberry sauce slid off the rim of a white porcelain plate, dark and slow—like a drop of bl**d. I watched it creep toward the tablecloth and thought, that’s how my life has been leaking away at this table. One drop at a time, every single Thursday.
“Grandma, pass the salt.”
Obadiah’s voice—Percy’s oldest—snapped me out of it.
I handed over the shaker, willing my fingers not to tremble. Thursday meant the weekly “family dinner” at Percy and Tabitha’s. A tradition that used to mean togetherness… until it turned into a routine humiliation I kept showing up for anyway. Maybe stubbornness. Maybe fear of admitting the truth: I didn’t belong there.
“The potatoes are burned,” Tabitha muttered, poking at her plate.
“Rosie, you know the kids hate crust,” Percy added, his tone sharp.
My daughter pressed her lips together, as if she had a thousand words she wouldn’t say. If someone helped me in the kitchen instead of spending three hours on the phone with customers… But Percy cut her off with a sigh and a warning glance.
“Let’s not start. We have guests.”
Guests.
That word hit harder than a slap. Guests, not Mom. Not Grandma. Guests.