Dinner was pleasant enough if you ignored the hierarchy hidden beneath casual conversation.
Brenda discussed a cruise, Rachel complained about a coworker, and David mostly listened while cutting Leo’s chicken.
Whenever I tried telling a story, Rachel found a way to interrupt without technically being rude.
I mentioned an exhibit at the local art museum.
“Oh, Mom would love that,” Rachel said, immediately turning toward Brenda. “Remember that gallery in Boston?”
Just like that, my sentence disappeared.
I wasn’t angry.
That came later.
What I felt was smaller and sadder:
