I sat there, wine-soaked, smelling grapes and salt and turkey skin, and looked up at my sister.
Charlotte was forty years old, blond, beautiful in the polished local-magazine way, and as composed in public as a woman reading announcements in church. She sold luxury homes in Franklin, Tennessee, dressed like she had a personal stylist, and had spent most of our lives being described as “strong.”
In our family, strong often meant the person nobody else was brave enough to contradict.
“Say something,” she snapped.
I reached for my napkin.
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