As the plates were cleared, I knew I couldn’t let it go on.
“We need to talk about what happened,” I said, my voice steady despite the tremor inside.
My sister looked up, still defiant.
“It was just a cake,” she shrugged, as if it were nothing.
But it was everything.
“It was more than that,” I replied, struggling to keep my voice even.
My mother sighed, dismissing my words with a wave of her hand.
“Let’s not make a scene,” she said.
But the scene had already been made.
Every eye was on us, every ear tuned to the confrontation.
