Page 19 of New Hope, Old Grudges

“You make really cute babies,” I told her, an understatement.

Her eyes lit up. “Don’t I know it.” She breezed in to kiss the baby, then surprisingly, me on the cheek before going into the kitchen.

“Harry.” I turned to the man shrugging off his jacket. The man who had my father’s coffee-colored hair, his dark brows, his long nose.

It hurt to look at him. Even more so when my brother did not have a warm smile for me like his wife. He had something very close to a scowl on his face as he took me in. Then his mouth opened, and I got the feeling he was going to say something to match that scowl. But his eyes stuttered on the baby in my arms, veering toward my mom who was somehow oblivious to the disdain on my brother’s face and was smiling with tears of joy shimmering in her eyes. Both her children together, for the first time since her husband died.

Harry pressed his mouth shut as if he were being persuaded by the better angels of his conscience, then nodded once at me. “Willow,” he replied, voice stiff.

There was a long and awkward pause in conversation, Stevie Nicks singing about being on the edge of seventeen in the background.

But with my mother around, there was never awkwardness or stilted conversation for long.

“My children are home, my grandchild is perfection, the wine is breathing, and the food is cooking. What more could I wish for?”

Both my brother and I looked at each other, speaking a silent truce, if only for our mother’s sake.

It was Thanksgiving, after all.

Family drama could wait until at least dessert.

* * *

It turned out the drama would not wait until dessert. It simmered hotter than mom’s cider, bubbling through conversation that my mother never let pause. Through appetizers I knew were delicious but somehow tasted like ash.

There was no denying my brother’s attitude toward me, the hatred he couldn’t hide. Everyone was ignoring it, his wife trying extra hard to make conversation with me. The baby was the only saving grace, since conflict could be paused when there was a little, chubby infant being passed between family, watching us all intently.

But eventually, dinner had to be served, the baby needed to nap and the adults had to sit at the table with their feast and their resentments.

“Okay, I’d like to propose a toast—” My mother held up her wine glass.

Except no one else got the chance to hold up theirs.

“I’m sorry, are we really going to sit here like Willow has been at this table every year?” Harry interrupted, fury saturating his tone. “Like she’s been here for Mabel’s birth, Dad’sdeath,” he hissed.

The words were barbed, and they struck home.

“Harry, can we please not do this?” my mother pleaded. “Willow is home with usnow, that’s all that matters.”

“No, Mom, that’s not all that matters,” Harry huffed in obvious annoyance. “I appreciate and love your ability to forgive even the most egregious of acts, but I’m not cut from the same cloth, and I’m not going to letyouget away with what you’ve done.” He jabbed his finger at me from across the table, and I flinched.

“Harry—”

“No!” he yelled. “You don’t get to talk now. You could’ve come home and talked to me when mydaughter was born.”

“I sent gifts,” I whispered.

“Oh, yes, let’s not forget the expensive gifts, those fixed everything.”

“Babe.” Sarah put her hand on Harry’s. “Maybe give Willow a break, she’s been through a lot.”

I was thankful to my sister-in-law for coming to my defense, especially considering we barely knew each other.

“Willow has had plenty of breaks,” Harry seethed. “We’ve all made our excuses for you, but I’m fucking done. Where were you when Dad died, huh? Living your life in L.A., having forgotten all about your family, what mattered.”

“I never forgot about you.” Emotion clogged my throat, my voice barely audible.

He laughed. The sound was cold and ugly. “You could’ve fooled me. And you could’ve fooled Dad. That man believed in you until the day he died, and I don’t know why the fuck he did.”

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