I should have known something was wrong the moment I rang the doorbell. Usually, my son Marcus would greet me with that warm, familiar smile. Instead, it was Zariah who opened the door, her perfectly manicured fingers gripping the handle like a queen surveying her domain.
“Oh,” she said, her voice carrying a specific chill she reserved just for me. “You’re here.” It made me feel like an intruder in my own son’s home.
I clutched the small gift bag tighter. Inside was a hand-knitted sweater for my grandson, Tommy, a project of love I’d spent weeks on. “Hello, Zariah. I brought something for Tommy’s birthday.”
She didn’t move. Her eyes performed a swift, brutal appraisal of my simple black dress—the nicest one I owned, though clearly not up to her standards. “Marcus is still getting ready. The other guests have already arrived.”
