She only needs them to watch her do it and pass the cinnamon rolls.

Every silent adult at that table was a brick in the wall Gene had built around my daughter, and the hardest thing I have had to forgive — harder, in some ways, than forgiving Gene, who at least was honest in her cruelty — is all the good, kind, comfortable people who watched a child be made small year after year and decided that the seating chart was more important than her heart.

Chapter 5 — Christmas Morning

At eight forty-seven on Christmas morning, Gene began handing out the gifts, and she did it the way she did everything, with a slow ceremonial importance, as though she were bestowing rather than giving.