My father’s voice landed on the white tablecloth like a knife laid down too carefully. Not slammed. Not raised. That was what made it worse. Around us, the restaurant buzzed with graduation lunches and champagne toasts, proud parents leaning in for photos, servers weaving between tables with plates of salmon and truffle fries, clusters of students in black gowns hugging each other in the narrow aisles. A dozen feet away, someone was laughing loud enough to turn heads. Somewhere behind me, glassware chimed. Across the room, a little girl in a pink cardigan kept twirling in circles around her mother’s chair.
And at our table, my family was trying to strip me clean before dessert.
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