His fingers twitched. He pulled his hand back. Turned. Walked.
Toward the cake table. Toward June. Toward my daughter.
I stood alone under the balloons. The wind knocked them together — dull, hollow thumps.
Frank looked at me through the grill’s flames. His mouth opened, like he wanted to say something. Then he set the tongs down, rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, and turned back to the meat.
Laughter came at me from every direction. June had Sophie by the hand, posing for pictures at the cake table. Sophie in her new dress, smiling at the camera, frosting on her lips. Smiling so wide.
Without me.
I took a step forward.I watched Derek’s back the whole way to June. And I knew, right then: I was done waiting for him to speak for me.
I didn’t yell. I didn’t cry. I picked up the juice cup a neighbor kid had dropped, set it back on the table, pulled out a chair for an old lady. Then I walked to the cake table and asked a question loud enough for the whole yard to hear.
