Mom appeared in the doorway, smiling too wide.
“Everything okay in here?”
“Fine,” Lauren said cheerfully. “Just catching up.”
Mom looked at me.
“Emma, fine,”
I echoed.
Mom nodded, satisfied, and went back to the living room. Lauren shot me a smug look before following her. For the rest of the night, I kept to myself. I sat in the corner sipping water, watching Lauren command every conversation like a stage light that never dimmed. Mom kept laughing at her jokes. Peter told her how proud he was. And me? I just sat there invisible as usual, cataloging every detail, the tone, the timing, the signs. It’s what I do. When the guests finally left, I helped clean up. The house smelled like wine and sugar and exhaustion. Lauren was upstairs still talking loudly on her phone. Mom was humming while wiping the counter, pretending nothing had happened. She looked over at me.
“See, that wasn’t so bad.”
I nodded, stacking plates.
“Sure, great night.”
But my mind wasn’t on the dishes. It was on the look in Lauren’s eyes when she grabbed my arm, the mix of jealousy and something darker, something unstable. And somewhere under that noise of clinking glasses and forced laughter, a quiet certainty settled in my gut. This family was a fuse, and someone had already lit the match. The house was quiet except for the soft ticking of the clock and the faint hum of the refrigerator. I was sitting in the kitchen, finishing a glass of water, trying to forget how fake the night had been. Upstairs, I could hear Lauren moving around, heels clacking, drawers slamming, the familiar soundtrack of her being drunk and dramatic. The digital clock on the oven blinked 1:54 a.m. I thought about just going to bed and pretending everything was fine like always, but then her voice echoed down the stairs.
“Emma, you up?”
I closed my eyes, exhaled slowly.
“Yeah,” I called back.
She appeared in the doorway a few seconds later, still in her party dress, mascara smudged under her eyes, a half empty wine glass in one hand.
“We need to talk,” she said.
That was never a good sign.
“What’s up?” I asked, keeping my tone neutral.
She leaned against the door frame, smiling too wide.
“You think you’re better than me?”
I sighed. Lauren, it’s 2:00 in the morning.
“Exactly,” she said, taking a sip. “That’s when people tell the truth.”
“I’m not doing this.”
I started to get up, but she blocked the doorway.
“No, you are doing this,” she snapped. “You sit there with your perfect little military discipline, acting like you’re some kind of hero. You think I don’t see how you look at me,”
“Lauren,” I said calmly. “You’re drunk. Go to bed.”
