I was summoned to my mother’s house. They expected an apology, a groveling admission that I had been “difficult” at the party. My parents and sister sat around the kitchen table, teacups steaming, their faces set in masks of self-righteous expectation. I walked in, pulled out a chair, and quietly placed a plain, white envelope in the center of the table between the floral saucers.
Before I even spoke, my mother’s smug smile began to falter. She looked at the envelope as if it were a venomous snake. “What is
