That was the strangest part of it all—the calm certainty of knowing exactly where to place my anger now. For years, my emotions had been a messy room where everyone else tossed their junk. Tonight, the room felt organized.
Aiden was a child who’d been taught something ugly.
Jessica had been the teacher.
The adults at the table had been the audience, clapping.
That was where accountability belonged.
Halfway through dinner, Jennifer finally spoke.
“So,” she said, voice stiff, as if she were forcing her mouth into unfamiliar shapes. “Nina… you really own this place?”
Her tone wasn’t accusatory. It was bewildered. Like she’d just discovered gravity could be negotiated.
“Yes,” I said.
Jennifer’s lips parted. She glanced at Jessica, then at my mother, then at me again.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” she asked.
I set my fork down gently, the way I had at Thanksgiving, but this time my hands weren’t shaking.
“Because no one asked,” I said simply.
Jennifer flinched.
“That’s not—” she began, then stopped, as if she couldn’t find a way to argue with something that plain.
Uncle Robert snorted into his drink. “She’s got you there, Jen.”