The first thing that broke was not the plate. It was the illusion that my father would ever choose me.
Porcelain exploded across the kitchen floor in white shards, scattered between my boots and Elaine’s expensive heels. Roast beef slid off the broken plate and steamed against the tile like something wounded. My stepmother stood by the counter with a wineglass in her hand, her red mouth parted in a perfect little performance of shock. She had practiced helplessness the way some women practiced piano.
My father did not look at the mess.
He looked at me.
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