During Family Breakfast, My Sister Hurled a Hot Frying Pan at My Daughter

She went still, her silver bangle sliding down to her wrist.

“You’ve never called me Patricia in your life,” she whispered.

“There won’t be any unsupervised visits,” I said.

“No Sunday dinners, no holiday visits, and no second chances.”

For several seconds my mother stood on the top porch step without moving her hands.

She turned, went back down the wooden steps, and walked to her green sedan without looking at me again.

I stood at the front of my car until her green sedan turned onto Rochester Road and vanished behind the oaks.