A pale lipstick mark stained the rim.
“Carter,” she said.
That was all.
No outrage. No sharp correction. No mother’s instinct to stop her child from humiliating someone in front of the family. Her voice held the mild annoyance people use when a kid grabs dessert too early or leaves fingerprints on a window.
Carter frowned, genuinely confused. “But you said Aunt Margot basically does all the serving.”
Uncle Richard laughed first.
It was not nervous laughter. Not the brittle kind people use when they are embarrassed and desperate for the moment to pass. It was full and barking, the kind of laugh that throws open a locked door. Thomas joined him a second later. Scott snorted into his drink. Jennifer made a small guilty sound into her napkin. My mother covered her mouth with one hand, looked down at her plate, and her shoulders began to shake.
Even Emma, Carter’s younger sister, giggled uncertainly because children learn quickly what adults reward.
The laughter spread around that expensive table like fire running through dry grass.
I did not look at Carter again.
