“Get out — you’re dead to me,” my dad spat at Christmas dinner. Mom shook her head, “Stop embarrassing your sister.” I smiled and said “Okay. Fine. Don’t call me again.” The room fell silent. The next morning… cops, tears, chaos.
My dad’s voice cut through the Christmas music like glass shattering on the floor. The lights on the tree flickered, the silver ornaments trembling as if they could feel what was coming. My mom froze with a serving spoon in her hand, mashed potatoes sliding off in a slow, pale avalanche onto the good…
