I lifted my tea.

The porcelain was warm in my palms.

“She dumped my raw scones in the trash right in front of me,” I said.

“She wanted to be the one bringing the food,” Margaret said.

“She wanted you to know she’s running things now.”

“I don’t care who brings the pastries,” I said.

“I care that my son took her side for doing it.”

Margaret sipped her tea.