I wrote a scathing critique of it, missing the connections and meanings I now understand. I was lost in the despair of my mother’s death, how her loss shaped everything I believed and didn’t believe about love. I’d scoffed at the idea of love enduring through age and regret, never guessing how deeply it would one day cut.
Anna’s laughter cuts through the room as she throws another piece of chicken for Bell. Bell’s paws pound across the floor to chase the food. All our eyes fall on her and we take a deep breath.
Until Ivy starts reading.
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
My chair scrapes violently as I stand too fast. The legs catch. It crashes to the floor with a crack.
Forks pause mid-air. Every face turns toward me.
Jules doesn’t miss a beat.
“That’s perfect. Great choice, Mom. Syd, come help me with the pie in the kitchen?”
She doesn’t wait for an answer. She rights my chair and pulls me out of the room, her grip firm but gentle. The moment we’re alone, Jules hisses through clenched teeth. “How can you sit there and pretend any of this is okay?”
“How do I… how do I do this?” The worry folds my voice into a broken whisper.
Jules pulls me into a hug. “Anna will be okay. She’s loved by so many people. But you also get to want something for yourself. You’re allowed to choose this. And that isn’t selfish. It isn’t anything like what your parents did.”
I meet her eyes, drawing strength from her certainty.
Before I can move, Mason steps in, his face tight.
“I don’t know what’s going on with you. That was embarrassing. It’s a reading. Ivy and James are getting married. That doesn’t matter to you, right?”
He holds my gaze as Jules grabs my hand. We stand locked in a tense triangle.
“Hey, Mason, I heard the Celtics are on. Why don’t you kindlyfuck offand let me finish talking to Syd?” Jules steps forward, amber eyes glaring, full of challenge.
“I need a moment alone with my wife.” He grabs my arm, fingers digging in, enough to make a point.
I stare at his hand on my arm for one deliberate second. Meet his eyes. See if he remembers what I told him about touching me and shake him off.
“Syd, these dramatics are inappropriate. Get it together,” he hisses.
I paste on a Barbie smile—perfect, plastic, empty—and carry in a few plates of pie. Let my rage simmer in the depths of my stomach.
Margaret scans the room: Mason and me. James and Ivy. She senses it. This isn’t betrothal bliss or holiday cheer. It’s a masquerade of strained smiles and fractured silence. And whatever she’s thinking, her words from earlier make it clear. There’s only so much intervening she’s willing to do.
“Vera, that sweater is lovely,” Margaret says. “Is it cashmere?”
“Thank you! I picked it up today at that charming little boutique in town. The one with the yellow door.” Vera beams, smoothing her hand over the soft blue material.
“You stopped in town?” Ivy’s fork stops halfway to her mouth.
“We decided to stop at the winter festival on the way back.” James lifts his wine glass and takes a slow sip. “My mom wanted to see it in person after I told her so much about it.”
“It was lovely,” Vera adds, her eyes finding mine across the table.
“You should’ve seen James on Galaga,” Beck beams. “He crushed the high score!”
