Before I could gather myself, a clear little voice broke the tension.
“Mommy?”
It was Emma — my seven-year-old granddaughter — climbing onto a patio chair with one of the toy microphones I’d brought. She tapped it like a tiny reporter.
“Why are you mad at Grandma? You told her three times not to bring anything. I heard you.”
The yard went still. Conversations stopped. Even the grill seemed to quiet.
Karen’s smile faltered, her wine glass pausing mid-air.
Emma wasn’t finished. “You always say we should listen. Grandma listened.”
It was such a simple truth, spoken with the purity only a child can manage.
A few people chuckled under their breath. One man muttered, “Well, there it is.”
Karen stared at Emma, then at me, lips parting like she might say something. But no excuse came. No denial. Just a hard swallow before she turned and disappeared into the house.
