Eleven years of marriage to Daniel had taught me which casserole earned a smile, which dessert earned silence, and which seat at the table belonged to a woman who had married in but never quite arrived.
The kitchen was where I lived during family gatherings.
The laughter happened in the next room.
That Sunday was no different.
The kitchen was where I lived during family gatherings.
I stood at Brooke’s sink, elbows deep in lasagna pans.
Brooke was married to Daniel’s older brother, Greg, which made her my SIL by paper.
Greg was an oil-and-gas consultant who lived half the year on planes, in Houston hotels, and in his absence, Brooke had quietly taken over everything.
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