My mother’s shoulders shook. She didn’t laugh loudly; hers was a dry chuckle, sandpapery, but her eyes glowed with that strange pleased amusement she always saved for moments when Jessica showed her teeth.
Jessica took a slow sip of her wine. She didn’t look at me. She didn’t even glance toward the fork in my potatoes.
She kept her gaze on her son like he’d just recited a poem at a school play.
“Aiden, sweetie,” she said, voice soft and faux-gentle, “that’s not a nice thing to say out loud.”
His brow furrowed. Confused. “But you said—”
“I know what I said,” she cut in quickly, still smiling. “Just eat your turkey.”
Laughter rippled again, smaller this time, like everyone was pretending they weren’t really laughing but couldn’t quite stop. Napkins lifted to hide smiles. Jennifer bit her lip and looked directly at me, eyes glittering like she was collecting this moment to replay later.
And that’s when it hit me—harder than the fork, harder than the words.
Not a single person at that table looked surprised.
No one gasped and said, “Where did you hear that?”
No one looked appalled as if this were new information.
No one acted like Aiden had said something shocking.