I did not understand. I looked past her again, at Robert now standing a few feet behind her in the hallway, watching this entire exchange with an expression I couldn’t quite read, something between discomfort and resignation, like a man who’d seen this coming and hadn’t found the courage to stop it. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t step forward.
Emma, beside me, had gone very quiet, the kind of quiet that in hindsight I recognize as a child trying very hard to make herself smaller, to take up less space, as though that might somehow fix whatever was happening. She was still holding the gift bag. Still holding the little wrapped ornament against her chest.
“There’s clearly room,” I said, my voice tightening despite my best efforts to stay calm. “I can see the extra chairs from here, Mom.”
My mother’s expression shifted then, something defensive flickering across her face. “Kate, please don’t make this a thing. I just think tonight works better without extra additions to the mix. We can do something with you two another time, just the three of us, without everybody else around.”
Without everybody else around. As though Emma, her own granddaughter, needed to be quarantined away from the rest of the family rather than welcomed into it.
I felt something cold settle in my chest, a specific, awful kind of anger that comes from watching someone you love hurt your child in a way that’s technically deniable, technically explainable, and completely unmistakable at the same time. I looked down at Emma. Her eyes were bright, too bright, the particular brightness of a kid working very hard not to cry in front of people.
“Come on, baby,” I said quietly, reaching for her hand. “Let’s go.”
“Kate—” my mother started.
