“Oh, Hannah,” Janice trilled, her voice pitching up an octave. “Did you bring the tart? I was so worried you might forget. Again.”

I hadn’t forgotten it last year; I had been in the emergency room with a concussed child, but facts were irrelevant in Janice’s court. “It’s on the counter, Janice. Lemon and rosemary.”

“Interesting,” she murmured, making the word sound like a diagnosis. Strike one.

“She tries her best,” Gerald muttered under his breath as he slammed a plate of ham onto the table. He didn’t lower his voice enough to hide it; he just lowered it enough to claim plausible deniability. Strike two.

Across the table sat my sister-in-law, Kimberly, and her daughter, Meline. Meline was the same age as Fiona, but she was dressed in a sequined gown that looked like it cost more than my first car. She twirled in her seat, basking in the adoration of her grandparents, acting out her role as the ‘Golden Child’ with practiced ease. Fiona watched her quietly, her hands folded in her lap. My daughter didn’t need a spotlight; she just needed to not be invisible.