Then my uncles, Douglas and Raymond, lifted their hands with confidence, followed quickly by their spouses, their children, distant cousins, and people I barely recognized. Some hesitated briefly, but my grandfather’s voice cut across the room with sharp authority.
“Come on,” Grandpa Walter snapped with impatience, making it clear he would not wait.
That command was enough to push the rest over the edge, and the hesitant hands lifted one after another as if they were afraid of standing alone. Even Aunt Colleen, who once called me a sweet boy when I was younger, raised her hand as though she was simply choosing a side in a harmless game.
I counted without trying because my mind clung to numbers that never shift or lie or pretend to mean something else entirely.
Thirty hands filled the air, and only two people kept theirs down.
Uncle Peter and his wife, Angela, sat stiffly with their hands in their laps, looking like the only two people in the room who still remembered what Christmas was supposed to mean.
My chest felt hollow enough that every breath echoed painfully inside it.