“Those are only for my real grandchild.”
My mother lifted the plate of fries above my four-year-old son’s reach and said it loudly enough for everyone at the family barbecue to hear.
Grill smoke drifted across the backyard, folding itself into the smell of burgers, charcoal, and the sweet barbecue sauce my father always used before his stroke.
A cooler sat open beside the patio table, red plastic cups were scattered across the lawn chairs, and a half-dozen relatives turned toward my mother as if she had just delivered the funniest line of the afternoon.
Then they laughed.
Dany kept his small hand raised for another second.
He had only asked for a few fries.
He did not understand why his grandmother had moved the plate away, and he definitely did not understand why the adults who were supposed to love him were laughing.
His fingers slowly curled toward his palm.
