My father, Richard, who was carving the lamb at the head of the table, let out a booming, cruel, dismissive laugh.
“If she can’t handle a little spill, she should go eat in the kitchen with the caterers,” Richard scoffed, pointing the carving knife toward the hallway. “Tell her to walk home if she’s going to stand there and cry, Arthur. I won’t have her ruining our pre-vacation mood. We have a big day tomorrow.”
The world ceased to spin. The ambient noise of the house vanished.
The air in the room suddenly turned into jagged, freezing glass in my lungs.
I looked at the people who shared my DNA. I looked at the parents I had subsidized for a decade. I looked at the sister whose rent I paid. They were laughing. They were literally chuckling as the woman carrying my child wept softly, shivering in wet clothes against their wall.
