The moment I stepped into my parents’ house, I heard my mother say, “My sister’s kids eat first, and my kids wait for the crumbs.”
I froze in the hallway with one hand still gripping the doorknob. The grocery bags I had carried inside dug painfully into my fingers, but for a second, I barely felt them.
The dining room smelled of roasted chicken, buttered rolls, mashed potatoes, and apple pie. It smelled like Sunday. It smelled like family.
Then I saw my children.
Noah, eight years old, was sitting in the corner with his knees pressed tightly together, staring down at an empty paper plate in his lap. Lily, six, worried the edge of her sweater between her fingers, fighting hard not to cry.
Around the large dining table, Vanessa’s three children were laughing with full plates in front of them, their mouths glossy with gravy.
