I looked toward my brother, Caleb, waiting for him to put an end to it. He did not. He looked down into his champagne glass with a tight smile, pretending it was all harmless.
Then my mother raised her voice from the head table.
“Well,” she said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Grace has always been like a clearance item with a torn tag. Still on the shelf, but nobody wants the trouble.”
The laughter swelled.
My fork slid out of my hand and clattered against the plate. My ears rang. Beneath the tablecloth, my hands started to tremble.
Beside me, my nine-year-old son, Ethan, became completely still.
I turned toward him at once. “Sweetheart, it’s okay.”
But his gaze stayed locked on the stage.
He had put on his best blue shirt that day. He had combed his own hair. He had even asked whether Uncle Caleb might dance with him after dinner because he missed having men in the family who smiled at him.
Now he looked at all of them as if he had just learned something that could never be unlearned.
Tiffany continued laughing. “Oh, don’t look so serious, Grace. It’s just a joke.”
My mother added, “If she could take a joke, maybe she wouldn’t be single.”
More laughter followed.
Something inside me splintered, but before I could rise, Ethan shoved his chair back.
“Ethan,” I whispered.
He did not turn toward me.
