It was an accident. A meaningless, sticky accident.

Holly didn’t see it that way. She lunged, grabbing Oliver’s arm with a violence that stopped the conversation at three nearby tables. She yanked him upward, her nails digging into his skin.

“This is what happens!” she shrieked, her voice cutting through the humid air. “This is what happens when bastards don’t have fathers to teach them manners!”

The silence that followed was absolute. It was a vacuum. Oliver burst into tears, terrified not by the word, which he didn’t understand, but by the venom in his aunt’s face. He looked at me, his eyes swimming with confusion. “Mommy, what’s a bastard?”

I looked around the gathering. I looked at my parents, who were studying their paper plates. I looked at my aunts and uncles, who were suddenly fascinated by the coleslaw. No one moved. No one spoke. No one defended him.