My mother,\u00a0Patricia<\/b>, possessed a smile that was an architectural marvel\u2014perfectly constructed, meticulously maintained, and entirely hollow. She wiped her mouth with a monogrammed linen napkin and announced our \u201cspecial baby gift\u201d to the mahogany dining table. Beside her, my father,\u00a0Richard<\/b>, sat taller in his wingback chair, his chest puffing out slightly as he already began to bask in the anticipated glow of his own generosity.<\/p>\n \u201cLet\u2019s celebrate Lily with a short flight,\u201d he declared, his voice booming with the practiced authority of a man used to giving orders. \u201cA loop over the county in the new four-seater. Show her the world from the top down.\u201d<\/p>\n Across the table, my older sister\u00a0Jessica<\/b>\u00a0clapped her hands together. The diamonds on her fingers caught the chandelier\u2019s light. \u201cOh, her first flight! It\u2019ll be absolutely precious. The photos will be stunning.\u201d<\/p>\n It should have felt like a sweet, welcoming gesture. It should have felt like a family embracing its newest, most vulnerable member. Instead, a cold, jagged knot tightened at the base of my stomach.<\/p>\n
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