Everything had been so normal a minute earlier—or at least Sharon-level normal, which meant aggressively festive and deeply fake. Her tree twinkled with a manic intensity. The cinnamon candles were fighting a losing battle for dominance with the burnt ham smell wafting from the kitchen. Presents were stacked like we were filming an ad for seasonal overspending. And of course, the favoritism had been flowing like boxed wine at a PTA mixer.