He was standing near the punch bowl with his paper cup in his hand.
His face had gone blotchy red, and his mouth opened once, but no words came out.
He looked younger than thirty-eight in that moment.
He looked like the boy who used to stand in my shop after school pretending not to need help with his homework.
I could have shouted.
I could have told Madison exactly what she had thrown away.
I could have ripped that perfect living room open with the truth.
But Frank had taught me that some doors are better opened slowly.
So I crossed the carpet.
I bent down.
I lifted the blanket from the bin and shook a small piece of tissue from the border.
Nobody moved.
A woman near the window stared into her lemonade glass as if it might save her from choosing a side.
