Lily unbuckled quietly and waited for me to open her door.
When I took her hand, her fingers were cold despite the heated car.
Inside, the smell of rosemary, butter, and baked bread hit us immediately.
The dining table was already set with the good china.
My mother always used the good china when she expected admiration or war.
Miranda was in the kitchen opening wine.
Her husband, Dean, stood near the island pretending to help while actually scrolling through his phone.
My father was carving meat with the solemn concentration of a man who had spent a lifetime avoiding emotional labor by focusing on knives and appliances.
And my mother, in a cream sweater and pearls, turned at the sound of the door.
For one brief second her face flashed relief.
Then she saw I had brought Lily.
Then she saw I was not smiling.
The relief disappeared.
“Well,” she said, wiping her hands on a towel. “You finally decided to show up.”
Miranda let out a breathy laugh without looking up from the bottle.
“There he is. Mister drama.”
I took off Lily’s coat and hung it by the door.
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