sliced another piece of turkey and smirked.
“Pathetic.”
I stayed quiet.
That bothered them more than any argument could have.
For the past eight years, my family had treated my silence as proof that I had failed.
I was thirty-four, unmarried, and living in a modest apartment in Seattle. Whenever I flew home to Connecticut, I usually took the train from the airport instead of renting a car.
To my family, those few facts apparently told them everything they needed to know about me.
Vanessa, thirty-one, had a Mercedes, a
