My sister, Vanessa Whitmore, shouted the words loudly enough for everyone seated in the dining room to hear.
Before I even had a chance to rise, her hand slammed into my shoulder and sent me tumbling sideways out of the chair.
I crashed heavily onto the polished oak floor.
The room erupted.
My cousins burst into laughter. Her husband, Blake, covered his mouth as though hiding a cough. Aunt Donna murmured, “Oh my God,” yet a grin spread across her face. Even my mother, Patricia, remained at the head of the table with her wineglass lifted, her expression icy and pleased.
I stayed there for a second, listening as the laughter blended around me.
This was my father’s home. My father’s table. My father’s birthday celebration.
And everyone gathered in that room knew I was the one who had paid for it all.
