Rage at being denied.
She walked toward you in front of everyone, her heels clicking on your hardwood floor.
“As long as you’re alive,” she hissed, “I will never be anybody.”
Then she slapped you.
When you hit the sideboard and fell, you heard one gasp.
Maybe from the caterer.
Maybe from your old neighbor, Mrs. Klein.
But the people who had eaten your food, drunk your wine, and smiled at your table remained seated.
Valerie stared down at you.
Her breathing was hard.
Her face was flushed.
For a terrifying second, she looked like a stranger wearing your granddaughter’s skin.
And lying there with blood in your mouth, you finally understood something worse than pain.
The child you raised was gone.
Or maybe she had been gone for years, and you had been loving a memory.
You do not cry.
Not there.
Not in front of them.
You press your palm to the floor, ignoring the broken glass beneath your hand, and push yourself up.
Your knees shake, but they hold.
Ethan, Valerie’s husband, finally stands.
“Margaret, maybe you should sit down.”
You look at him.
