I looked at the front window. Beyond the frosted glass, the bare branches of an oak tree were whipping violently against the streetlamps.
I looked back at my younger sister. “Let me ensure I am translating this correctly. You want my children to sit in the cab of my truck while the rest of us carve the roast?”
Brooke offered me that serene, infinitely patient smile she typically deployed when explaining abstract concepts—like ‘personal branding’ or ‘synergy’—to people burdened by actual, labor-intensive employment.
“Rupert, please don’t frame it to sound malicious,” she murmured, adjusting the lapels of her silk blouse.
“I literally just repeated your exact sentence,” I replied, keeping my voice dangerously level.
“The truck has climate control,” Brooke countered, as if she were pointing out a luxury amenity at a five-star resort.
“So does this house.”
Mom released a heavy, theatrical sigh. “Rupert.”
It was that tone. Bun Bun. (For the historical record, she did).
