“Everyone gets invited?”
“Everyone.”
Including Melissa.
Especially Melissa.
The birthday lunch was scheduled for Sunday afternoon.
At twelve thirty-five, Grant’s SUV appeared at the end of the driveway.
Melissa walked in carrying flowers.
She looked thinner than she had at Thanksgiving.
More tired too.
Her children ran past her toward the kitchen.
Grant awkwardly shook my hand.
“Nice place.”
“Thanks.”
Melissa remained standing in the foyer.
For a few seconds, neither of us said anything.
Then she looked around.
“I was horrible.”
I had imagined this conversation many times.
In most versions, I had prepared the perfect speech.
Something cutting.
Something satisfying.
In reality, all I said was, “You were.”
She nodded.
“I thought you were showing off.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I know that now.”
We went into the library so nobody else could hear us.
Melissa sat in one of the leather chairs.
“I think the house made me feel stupid,” she said.
I waited.
“You were always the little sister who didn’t care about status. I thought I was the successful one.”
“You are successful.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
I knew exactly what she meant.
She had built her identity around being the organized daughter.
The married daughter.
The mother.
The homeowner.
The person who hosted holidays and decided who belonged at the table.
My farmhouse had disrupted a hierarchy I had never agreed to participate in.
“I didn’t buy this place to compete with you,” I said.
“I know.”
“And inviting people wasn’t about taking Thanksgiving away.”
“I know that too.”
She looked toward the window.
“Raymond told me he stopped coming because I made him feel like a charity case.”
I said nothing.
“Peter said James thought we didn’t like him.”
