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

My father patted her head once, but his eyes slid to the door, as if he were checking whether my mother was standing out in the hall.

“Vanessa brought the organic berries,” my father told me.

“Your mother wanted it all perfect on the table by nine.”

“So I see,” I said.

On the wall above the sunroom doorway, right over the breakfast nook, was a little black dome camera.

My father had put in the smart home security system three months before, hooked up to an automatic cloud service he grumbled about paying forty dollars a month for.

“Is the camera on?” I asked, looking up at the tiny blue light.