The family gathering loomed closer, an event that felt less like a celebration and more like a trial.
Each day leading up to it was a test of endurance, pretending everything was fine when it was anything but.
I found myself rehearsing conversations in my head, trying to anticipate the words I would need to hold myself together.
My mom called one evening as I was putting the kids to bed, her voice cheerful, as if nothing had changed between us.
“Are you bringing the pie?” she asked, her tone light.
“Yes,” I replied, keeping my answer short, unwilling to engage.
She hesitated, the silence stretching between us, before she spoke again.
“It’ll be nice to have everyone together,” she said, and I could hear the underlying tension in her words.
“Yeah,” I managed, before ending the call, feeling the weight of unspoken truths pressing down on me.
The days dragged on, each one a reminder of the fracture that had split my family open.
Every glance, every word exchanged felt loaded, a dance around the elephant in the room that no one dared to acknowledge openly.
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