My sister’s son hurled a dinner fork at me and declared, “Mom says you’re basically the help.” The table erupted in laughter. I was gone before dessert ever reached the plates.

Fourteen people sat around the table.

My mother was at one far end, holding court the way she always did, her posture upright, her voice carrying. Uncle Robert sat beside her, already flushed and loud, three whiskeys in and proud of it. My cousin Jennifer leaned back in her chair with the lazy boredom of someone who’d never had to do anything urgently in her life. A couple of my mother’s friends—technically invited because my mother thought it made the gathering look “full”—sat near the middle, nodding politely at whatever story was being told.And at the head of the table on the opposite end from Mom sat Jessica.My sister.
Blonde hair in loose curls that somehow never frizzed, perfect mauve lipstick, nails clean and pale and glossy like she’d never done dishes in her life. Her fingers curled casually around the stem of a glass of Pinot Noir, the red wine making a jeweled shadow against the tablecloth.

Standing on his chair beside her, arm still extended from the throw, was her seven-year-old son, Aiden.