Then my mother saw me.
She rose so quickly the coffee table rattled.
“Claire,” she said, hurrying toward the door as I entered. “Tell them this is some kind of mistake.”
I closed the door behind me.
The house smelled like stale champagne, pine candles, and the roast my mother had bragged about buying for everyone except my children, who had been served leftovers because, according to her, “children don’t notice those things.”
I looked at the dining room.
The extra gift bags still sat near the sideboard, bright and unopened, each tagged with one of my nephews’ names.
None for Emma.
None for Lucas.
My mother followed my gaze and swallowed.
“Claire, you know how your brother is,” she said quickly. “He jokes. He doesn’t always think.”
“No,” I said. “He thinks. He just never expected consequences.”
Brent stopped pacing. “You really think you can throw your own parents out over one dinner?”
