One year later, we gathered to celebrate Mom’s sixty-ninth birthday at the exact same house.
It was a brittle twenty-eight degrees outside. The wind was howling off the street, rattling the bare branches of the oak tree.
More importantly, the social climate had altered.
Brooke was in the dining room, meticulously arranging silverware on the table. She looked up as Owen walked in.
She stopped, placing a fork down with deliberate slowness. “Owen, buddy. I have some terrible news for you.”
Owen froze, his guard rising. “What is it?”
“The twins have formally requested separate, socially distanced seating arrangements for the evening.”
I stopped in the doorway, my muscles tensing out of pure instinct. I stared at my sister.
Brooke maintained a deadpan expression, pointing a manicured finger toward the frosty window facing the driveway. “So, unfortunately, I have informed Braxton and Brinley that they will be eating their dinner in the back of my Honda Odyssey tonight.”
