My mother, Susan, nodded in soft agreement beside him, her expression carefully arranged into the mask of the loving, disappointed parent. “That’s right, Denise. Family supports one another. Don’t you think keeping a house this big all to yourself is a bit… selfish?”
Selfish.
The word hit me like a laugh I couldn’t let out. I looked around the room at the faces I’d invited—people I actually liked, people who had sent me birthday cards and asked about my company and meant it. My aunts and uncles wore the same stunned look, caught between wanting to vanish and wanting to stop the car wreck unfolding in my living room. My cousins hovered like they were ready to grab their coats.
They’d come to celebrate my milestone birthday, my new home, my hard-earned peace.
And my parents had come to claim it.
For a heartbeat, a memory flickered—a smaller house, a smaller living room, my father’s voice sharp as he told me, “You’re the responsible one, Denise. You understand. You can handle it.” Over and over, my entire life, I’d been assigned the role of the one who understood, the one who handled, the one who gave.
I took a breath and tasted champagne and old rage.