The tension was unbearable.
Three days. Three days of Lily’s smirks, her loaded silences, the way she watched Mark and me like a predator waiting for the kill. Three days of Mom bustling around, oblivious, laughing, planning family dinners as if nothing was wrong.
Every time Mom touched Mark—her hand brushing his arm, her kiss on his cheek—I felt the walls closing in. Every time Lily caught my eye, I knew she was counting down.
It wasn’t if anymore. It was when.
And the answer came on a Sunday evening, over dinner.
⸻
The four of us sat at the table. The smell of roast chicken filled the kitchen. Mom was cheerful, telling some story about a coworker. Mark responded politely. I pushed food around my plate.
Lily was silent. Too silent.
Until she set down her fork with a loud clatter.
