“Here’s to the relative who thinks paying bills makes them important.”
My parents burst out laughing. My mother’s laugh came too quickly, too brightly, like she was relieved to have something to laugh at. My father slapped the table once, delighted. Someone else chuckled. Even my aunt—who had arrived late and always looked like she’d rather be anywhere else—smiled.
Rachel’s eyes flicked toward me, checking for reaction, already prepared to roll them if I looked offended.
Something in me went very still. Not the stillness of shock, exactly. More like the moment you realize you’ve been holding a weight so long you forgot it was heavy, and then someone jokingly presses down on it and you suddenly feel every pound.
I smiled because my face knew the choreography. I lifted my drink because it was easier than dropping it and making the table flinch. I took a slow sip, bought myself a second, and then I said, calmly, with the same brightness everyone else had used to laugh:
