“Yes,” Melissa answered for the room. “The one who works overseas. She’s terribly shy.”

That was when the dam broke.

Ellen Holloway, sixty-six years old, pushed her chair back and stood up. Her hands were shaking. Her jaw was set.

“Her name is Iris,” my mother said, and her voice carried the length of the room. “And this is her home.”

Derek’s face went dark red. “Sit down, Mom.”

The table went dead. Six guests studied their laps. My mother stayed standing, alone in the silence her son had built around her.