“She is ten.”

“She was told.”

Emily whispered, “I’m sorry.”

I crossed the room and pulled her against me before she could say anything else.

The pink fabric was damp under my hand.

Patricia reached for another napkin.

“She was warned not to make a scene.”

“She didn’t make a scene.”

“This is a family matter,” Richard said.

The words landed so neatly that for a second I heard them as something ordinary.

He had used them before whenever his mother and I disagreed about Emily’s manners or the way she spoke at dinner.

Then Patricia lifted the cake plate and tipped what remained toward Emily.

I moved between them, but frosting had already streaked the front of the dress.

“Patricia.”