Brenda rolled her eyes and calmly reached for her crystal water goblet.

“He probably just bumped his arm,” Brenda said, talking over the sound of Toby’s crying.

“Stop making a dramatic scene over nothing.”

My mother gasped, twisting her lace handkerchief between her hands, but she didn’t get up from her seat.

“Beatrice, hand me the gravy boat,” my father said, adjusting his gold cufflinks without glancing toward the bay window.

“The boy is fine.”

Toby lay on the floor sobbing, his arm hanging at an impossible angle.