I set my glass down slowly.
I had six different things ready to say, fully formed, and I was fully prepared to say every single one of them, right there at her dining table, with her own son sitting close enough to hear each word.
That's my brother. Say his name. Say it while I'm sitting right here.
Then Julian reached under the table and found my hand, squeezing it once, firm and deliberate.
"We'll figure something out," he said.
Not to me. To her.
I looked at him, confused for a moment, and understood, almost as quickly as the confusion arrived, that I wasn't going to say any of those six things. Not there. Not that night.
It was my wedding. I wasn't going to hand Patricia the story of the night I raised my voice at her table.
"The salmon's really very good," I said instead, and reached for my water glass.
⸻
I didn't sleep much that night.
I lay awake replaying the exact tone she'd used — I don't want those photographs — like the entire wedding existed primarily as a decorating project for her own living room, with my brother positioned as an unfortunate design flaw she was hoping to edit out before the final draft.
