I stood slightly behind the main group near the edge of the room, holding a plastic cup of sparkling cider I didn’t want. I had dressed carefully—nothing too loud, nothing too small, nothing that could be criticized. A simple navy dress. Flats. Hair pulled back. My attempt at blending into the kind of family photo you hang in a hallway. The kind that says we’re normal, we’re close, everything is fine.
I should have known better.
My father stood beside my mother with his hands folded in front of him, posture stiff and polite, the way he looked when he didn’t want to be there but knew he was expected to perform. He kept glancing toward Elena like she was the sun and he was remembering how to orbit.
My mother—my mother who always took up space like the room was built for her—cleared her throat and smiled at the crowd.
“Okay, everyone,” she said, voice bright. “If I can have your attention for just a moment.”
The room quieted. Plates stopped clinking. Conversations trailed off. People turned their chairs or tilted their heads toward her. Elena’s friends leaned in, ready for the emotional parent speech. Our relatives settled into attentive expressions. Even the waitstaff slowed, as if instinct told them a toast was coming.
