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My mom’s voice was small. “My mother planned this.”
I squeezed her hand reassuringly.
Back home, my mom cooked like she always did when she didn’t know what else to do.
Chop. Stir. Wipe.
Ray texted the cousins. Uncle Tom texted the cousins. Same message.
At six, the house filled.
People brought pie. People brought awkward silence. People brought questions they didn’t ask yet.
Linda walked in at 5:58 like she was arriving at court.
Black dress. Red eyes. Perfect lipstick.
“Are we really doing this?”
I pointed to a chair. “Sit.”
She sat, slow and angry.
