The waiter stood motionless beside me, the machine in his hand, glancing from face to face as if searching for a way out. Rebecca gave a short, strained laugh. “God, don’t be dramatic.”
I turned to her. “You packed three full meals for your sons while my girls were here pretending they weren’t hungry. And you’re calling me dramatic?”
Mitchell leaned back in his chair, already wearing that smug expression people adopt when they think they’re about to witness a meltdown that confirms everything they think about you. “No one stopped you from asking for more.”
“No,” I said. “They just made it very clear which children count at this table.”
That hit harder than I expected. My mother immediately lowered her gaze. Neil placed the phone face down for the first time all night. Aunt Cheryl closed her eyes, as if she’d been waiting for years for someone else to say what she would never say.
Dad’s voice hardened.
