My four-year-old daughter and my niece accidentally wore almost identical dresses to Sunday dinner, and both girls were delighted. My older sister wasn’t. She demanded that I change my daughter, then lost her temper at the table and hur:led a skiIIet of fri:ed chicken toward her. But while my terri:fi:ed little girl clung to me covered in sauce, my mother didn’t blame my sister. She looked at me and said, “I told you to change her dress.”

Vanessa pushed her chair back.

“This isn’t about dresses.”

I looked at her.

“Then what is it about?”

“It’s about you constantly trying to make Mia equal to Sophie.”

The room went silent.

Even my father stopped chewing.

I said.

“They are equal.”

Something shifted in Vanessa’s face.

Not embarrassment.

Not regret.

Anger.

Pure anger.

She reached toward the skillet.

At first, I thought she was moving it away from the edge.

Then she lifted it.

“Then maybe you’ll finally understand why I’m tired of seeing your daughter copy mine.”

Everything happened in less than two seconds.

Vanessa swung the skillet toward Mia’s side of the table.

I lunged.

The skillet hit the edge.

Chicken flew across the table.

Sauce splashed everywhere.

Some hit the wall.

Some hit the floor.

Some hit me.

A large amount hit Mia.

Her pale-blue dress turned dark with sauce.

Her cardigan was soaked.

Sauce splattered across her arms.

Her neck.

Her cheek.

She screamed.

Her chair tipped sideways.

I caught her before she hit the floor.

Sophie started crying.

My father stood so quickly his chair fell backward.

Aunt Carol shouted.

“Vanessa!”

But my mother did not yell at my sister.

She yelled at me.

“I told you to change Mia’s dress!”

I froze.

Mia was sobbing against my chest.

Her little fingers were gripping my shirt.

She was shaking.

And my mother was looking at me as if I had caused it.

I looked from her to Vanessa.

Vanessa was breathing hard.