She had a folded piece of paper in her hand.
"What's that?" Sophie asked.
I already knew.
A toast.
Kristen had apparently prepared a toast for a bride she'd met once.
Sophie stared at her.
"Mom."
"Don't."
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"I haven't said anything."
"Your face has."
By dinner, Sophie's anger had become visible from across the room.
I found her near the bar.
"Whatever you're thinking," I said, "don't."
"I'm thinking Emma hasn't eaten half her dinner because she keeps dealing with Dad's wife."
"Emma can speak for herself."
Sophie looked at me.
"Can she?"
That irritated me.
"Of course she can."
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Sophie didn't answer.
She just looked toward the head table.
Emma was smiling at something Tom had said.
Perfectly calm.
Perfectly gracious.
Just as she'd been at every birthday.
Every graduation.
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Every Christmas dinner.
Every family event since the divorce.
I'd always been proud of that.
Emma was mature.
