My mother smiled vaguely. “We always make space for family.”

I sat down slowly.

So long as they are convenient, I thought.

The woman beside me switched forks with me without asking, sliding mine toward herself as if it had always been hers. “Thanks,” she said, eyes already elsewhere.

“It is fine,” I murmured. I had been saying that for years. Small accommodations. Small disappearances. Little cuts you do not notice until you realize you are bleeding everywhere.

My mother stood and raised her glass. The room quieted.

“I just want to say how proud I am of my family,” she began. “My son, who works so hard for his business. My grandson, who is going to be the first one of us to go to a really good college.”

Her gaze moved deliberately around the table. Mike. Tyler. Mike’s wife. Irene. It passed over me without slowing, like I was furniture.