“Then tonight you’ll all see how unimportant I really am.”
My father’s hand froze halfway to his mouth. His fingers stopped around the beer bottle like someone had pressed pause. The laughter died in little awkward coughs. My mother looked down at the potato salad as if she’d suddenly remembered she needed to count the noodles.
Rachel rolled her eyes, the way she always did when reality interrupted her fun. “Oh, relax, Stacy. I was joking.”
“Of course you were,” I said.
It wasn’t anger that made my voice steady. It was observation. I’d spent months learning to watch my family the way you watch weather—anticipating storms, bracing for shifts. I’d learned to read the quick exchange of looks between my parents when money came up. I’d learned Rachel’s tone changes: playful when she wanted something, irritated when she was challenged, wounded when she was held accountable.
