My daughter’s body went still. Her hands tightened around her gift bag. I saw her swallow, saw her eyes widen slightly like she wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly.
Maya leaned into my side and whispered, so small I almost didn’t catch it, “Mom… did I do something wrong?”
My chest constricted. The urge to stand up, to spill the entire brunch onto the floor like a tipped table, surged through me. But my family had trained me. My whole life, they had trained me to be the one who swallowed things before they could be seen.
The person who reacted was always the problem. The person who made a scene was always “dramatic.” The person who cried, yelled, or demanded respect was always “too sensitive.”
So I smiled, because my face knew the routine before my heart could fight it.
