Four cars meant an audience. An audience meant a spectacle.
I walked onto the porch, clutching my bag, rehearsing a version of the truth that sounded steady. I wanted to tell them it was a transition, a new beginning. I didn’t get the chance. The screen door hadn’t even latched behind me when Megan‘s voice drifted from the living room, sharp and vitriolic.
“So, is it true you got fired?”
She was perched on the recliner, her legs tucked under her, staring at her phone with a casual cruelty that made my stomach turn.
“Laid off,” I corrected, standing in the foyer. “There’s a distinction.”
“Whatever.” Megan turned her gaze toward our mother, Linda Sinclair, who was sitting on the sofa next to Aunt Patty. “Mom, I told you. Who’s going to subsidize my car loan now? I have a payment due Friday.”
The room went still. Mrs. Dawson sat in the armchair by the window, clutching her teacup with the rapt attention of someone watching a train wreck. My mother didn’t ask if I was okay. She didn’t ask how I was going to pay my own rent. She set her tea down with a soft clink that sounded like a gavel hitting a block.
