“Come in,” he mumbled, turning his back before I had even crossed the threshold.
Inside, the warmth was immediate and suffocating. The scent of pine and cinnamon hung in the air, thick and sweet. Lights blinked across a massive tree in the corner. The living room was full. Coats draped across the backs of chairs, drinks half-finished on the mantle, designer shoes kicked off near the baseboards.
I could hear someone laughing in the kitchen. A child darted past with glitter stuck in her hair.
Nenah appeared from the hallway. Her lipstick was perfect, a shade of crimson that looked sharp enough to cut. She wore a cream sweater dress and gold earrings that sparkled under the pendant light. She glanced at me, then smiled just enough to be polite, but not enough to be kind.
“Oh, we thought you might not make it,” she said, her voice airy. “We got caught up with everything.”
She didn’t take the gift bag either. She motioned toward the dining room and turned, already mid-conversation with a woman behind her.
Garrett gestured vaguely toward the front closet. “You can put your stuff there.”
I hung my coat myself. The hook was loose. I remembered tightening it three years ago, back when they first moved in, back when I still carried a small toolkit in my purse just in case they needed something fix. It wobbled under the weight of my damp coat.
The dining table was full. Twelve seats, all taken. Fine china, crystal glasses, name cards in calligraphy.
At the very end of the table, tucked half into the walkway leading to the kitchen, a folding chair had been added. It was metal, cold, and slightly lower than the rest. There was no name card.
That was mine. I knew without asking.
I slid into it. My knees brushed the edge of a plant stand. I placed the damp gift bag on my lap because there was nowhere else to put it. The album inside bent slightly under the pressure of my grip.
No one asked about my drive. No one mentioned the snow on my shoulders. One woman across from me smiled politely, then turned back to her conversation about a new kitchen backsplash.
I tried to listen. I tried to find an opening. But the conversation flowed over me like water around a stone. The food arrived in heavy, beautiful dishes. Ham, green beans with almonds, mashed sweet potatoes. It looked lovely. Nenah moved through the room with practiced ease, refilling wine glasses, laughing at just the right moments.
Garrett sat three seats away. He caught my eye once, nodded, and then looked down at his plate.
When dessert came, I reached for my bag, thinking maybe now would be the right time. Maybe someone would ask what I brought. But the moment passed. The conversation never slowed. The space around me stayed untouched. I set the bag beside my chair on the floor.
Someone asked Nenah where she got the crystal glasses.
“Oh, these?” Nenah beamed. “They were a wedding gift from Garrett’s aunt. Aren’t they exquisite?”
I froze. I had bought that set. I had saved for three months to buy that Waterford crystal for them. She didn’t mention that. She erased me in real-time.
After dinner, the kids were sent into the den. The adults lingered over pie and decaf. I stayed in my folding chair, hands clasped on my lap. I watched Garrett laugh at something Nenah said. His posture was easy, relaxed—the kind of comfort that comes when a man believes the room belongs to him.
Nenah’s niece came skipping back into the room. She couldn’t have been more than seven. She looked at me with a squint, trying to place a face she couldn’t quite remember. Then she turned to Nenah and whispered loudly, clearly audible over the jazz music.
“Is she the cleaning lady? Like Miss Janice at my school?”
A few chuckles followed—soft, uncomfortable, but audible.
Nenah laughed the loudest. She waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, stop it. Kids say the craziest things.”
But she didn’t correct her. She didn’t say, No, honey, that’s Garrett’s mother. That’s Grandma.
Garrett said nothing. He took a sip of his wine.
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