The yearly post-holiday tea had already begun in the basement room, where twenty folding metal chairs were arranged in a wide circle beneath buzzing fluorescent lights.

Aunt Helen and Aunt Martha were sitting side by side near the refreshment table, holding white paper cups of warm apple cider.

My mother stood three feet away from them, tugging at the collar of her wool cardigan with short, jerky motions.

“She locks the child away at home, but out here she acts like nothing ever happened,” my mother said, her voice carrying easily across the linoleum.

“That poor girl goes to bed without a hot meal twice a week just so Clara can save a few dollars.”