Holly accepted the flimsy paper bag with both hands because she was a naturally polite child. She carefully pulled back the thin sheets of white tissue paper tucked inside.
Sitting at the very bottom of the bag was a four dollar vanilla scented jar candle.
The cheap drugstore candle was not what cut into my heart like a serrated knife.
The handwritten cardboard tag tied around the glass jar was what did the damage.
It read: To Brandon’s Girl.
A silver fork stopped abruptly halfway to my brother-in-law’s mouth. One of the teenage cousins suddenly stared intensely down at the dining room carpet as if inspecting the fibers, while the family retriever backed slowly away from the table legs. Beside me, Brandon crushed his heavy paper coffee cup so hard that dark roast spilled over his knuckles, though he seemed completely unaware of the pain.
Gene kept her tight, artificial smile fully fixed on her face, already pretending that the malicious insult was far too trivial for any civilized person to bring up out loud.
“Brandon,” I whispered under my breath, turning my head slightly toward my husband.
He leaned close to my ear, his jaw set like concrete. “I explicitly told her to give my mother the little red box if this exact thing happened again.”
“What little red box are you talking about?” I asked, my voice trembling with confusion.
“The velvet one sitting in the side pocket of her overnight bag,” Brandon replied softly.
I stared at his profile in complete disbelief. “Did you actually plan this entire scene?”
“No, honey, I did not plan it,” he said, staring directly at his mother. “I prepared for it.”
Later that evening, at nine twelve, I walked into the guest bedroom and saw Holly sitting cross legged on the edge of the mattress with the cheap candle resting in her lap. Her gold dress was heavily wrinkled from the long day, and her big eyes kept tracing the handwritten words on the tag as if trying to decipher a strange code.
“Mom,” she asked softly without looking up, “am I really just Dad’s girl?”
