There it was. The sentence that made the restaurant noise go distant. The chatter around us blurred into a hum. I remember the way the sunlight hit the tablecloth, bright enough to make my eyes water. I remember the little clink of someone’s spoon against a plate.
Then my mother did something that made my stomach drop even further. She looked past me.
Not at Serena. Not at the women who would nod and laugh to keep things comfortable.
She looked right at Maya.
“And Maya won’t be in the formal photos,” my mother said. “We’re keeping it traditional.”
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