Nothing else transpired that evening.
There were no heated arguments in the hallways, no shouting matches, and no dramatic scenes before bedtime.
Gene went to sleep fully convinced that her subtle insult with the drugstore candle had been successfully swept under the rug.
The rest of us knew better.
The following morning, Gene hosted her annual post-holiday brunch.
She had reset the long dining table with painstaking attention to detail, acting as if the previous day had been utterly flawless.
White porcelain plates were aligned along the dark wood.
Silver napkin rings held crisp white linen napkins.
Handwritten place cards indicated exactly where every person was expected to sit.
It was the ultimate control tactic for Gene, because place cards appeared hospitable while granting her complete authority over who belonged where.
I spotted my own card first.
Then I saw Brandon’s name.
Then I saw the cards assigned to all the visiting uncles, aunts, and teenagers sitting around the dining room.
Every single family member had their official name printed on a card.
Except for my daughter Holly.
Her card carried a single, cold word.
It read: GUEST.
I saw the card at the exact same instant Brandon did.
