The fork in my hand felt heavier than it should have.It wasn\u2019t the steak. It wasn\u2019t the chandelier or the crystal glasses throwing little flashes of light across the table like spotlights. It was the table itself\u2014the long, glossy, museum-perfect mahogany in my sister Madison\u2019s dining room, where everything was arranged like a catalog photo. The flowers weren\u2019t just flowers; they were a statement. The napkins weren\u2019t napkins; they were linen folded into sharp, silent judgment.Madison sat at the head of the table like she owned the oxygen. She always had. Three years older than me, always taller in heels, and always carrying herself like her success was something she graciously performed for the family.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My mother dabbed at her lipstick with careful precision. My father carved his prime rib the way he did everything: quiet, exact, as if struggling would be an insult to his identity. My brother Tyler was half-present, thumb scrolling his phone. Madison\u2019s husband, Marcus, poured himself another glass of red wine without pretending it was for \u201cpairing.\u201d It was for confidence. For comfort. For the version of himself he liked more.Madison set her fork down with a tiny click.So,\u201d she said, voice sweet in that dangerous way. \u201cEmma.\u201dMy name landed like a warning.I swallowed and set my fork down too. \u201cYeah?\u201dMadison\u2019s smile didn\u2019t reach her eyes\u2014especially not when she was about to enjoy herself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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