like they were in a genuine restaurant without making everything artificially fancy.
Then she called for me.
I turned.
My face apparently revealed too much.
She stopped talking and glanced at my phone.
Then took it.
I couldn’t stop her.
She opened the group chat.
Read the messages.
And saw the photograph.
A long restaurant table with raised glasses.
My sister’s children, barely eighteen, smiling beside full plates.
Mom beaming.
Dad holding a wineglass.
Ava stared.
Then called Grandma.
I couldn’t hear the conversation, but watched her nod repeatedly.
Until
