The turkey sat carved open in the middle of the table, drying out under the chandelier. My mother’s good candles had burned low and started to lean. Someone had spilled red wine near Tyler’s plate and no one had cleaned it.
I picked up my napkin and wiped my sleeve.
Badly.
Mom watched my hand, then my face.
“Megan,” she said.
I hated how small her voice continue reading …
