It should have been fine.
For the first hour or so, it was.
I stood by the table of finger food pretending to be interested in grape skewers and mini quiches. Roger was beside me, holding a glass of white wine and wearing that neutral, inscrutable expression he uses when he’s too polite to say he wants to leave. My mother moved through the crowd like she was hosting a gala instead of a backyard birthday—hugging people with both arms, dabbing at tears, reapplying lipstick behind a napkin as if she had cameras on her. My father sat near the grill, complaining about the weather like it had personally betrayed him.
My sister Natalie was predictably nowhere near me.
Her husband laughed at something no one else found funny, which somehow made everyone laugh anyway. He had that kind of presence—too loud, too confident, always slightly overcompensating. I watched Natalie tilt her head and smile at him, the kind of smile she gave men who made her feel important. She looked relaxed, like she’d never been forced to live in the uncomfortable spaces of a family. Like she belonged here in a way I never quite did.
It was Grandpa’s house, but it didn’t feel like him anymore.
