I wiped them off slowly because my hands were shaking, and I did not want him to see how angry I was.
“We’re getting our own fries,” I told him. “Somewhere better.”
His eyes stayed on my face.
“Can I have a whole basket?” he asked quietly.
“You can have the whole basket.”
My mother lowered the plate.
“Oh, don’t be dramatic, Lucy,” she said. “It was a joke.”
No one laughed that time, but no one apologized either.
Chelsea shifted beside the cooler and looked toward the patio, pretending she had suddenly become interested in the food on the grill.
Mom stepped closer, ready to turn my reaction into the real offense.
She had done that my entire life.
She could insult me, dismiss me, or demand something unreasonable, but the moment I objected, the conversation became about my tone.
She could hurt me and still expect me to comfort her for feeling accused.
