Everyone.
And then—because apparently one knife wasn’t enough—he added, as if he were providing useful context:
“She says that’s why you don’t have nice things like us.”
The sting on my shoulder was nothing compared to the sensation in my chest. It wasn’t just hurt. It was that strange, immediate compression—like someone had reached into my ribs and squeezed my lungs. I heard the hallway clock tick once. I heard a car pass outside. Somewhere in the house, the oven beeped, cheerful and oblivious.
And at the table, there was silence.
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