I never threw it in their faces. I smiled at family dinners. I listened to their complaints. I was the reliable one.
Until that night.
---
**The Dinner**
The table was loud with laughter when I arrived. Lauren looked beautiful in her rust-colored sweater, her curls perfectly styled. Derek, her husband, sat beside her cracking jokes. Eric was already halfway through a beer, leaning back like he owned the place. Dad sat at the head, looking tired. Mom fussed over the food.
And then there was Mason — my twelve-year-old nephew. He used to run to me when he was little, calling me “Auntie Rach” and asking for piggyback rides. Now he barely looked at me unless he wanted something.
I sat down in the chair across from Lauren. The roasted turkey glistened in the center of the table, surrounded by sides I had quietly paid for through grocery deliveries when money got tight for my parents.
We said grace. Plates were filled.
Then Mason, sitting to my right, dragged his fork through his mashed potatoes, scooped some up, and deliberately spit a thick glob of saliva right onto the center of my plate.
The sound was unmistakable.
For one second, the table went silent.
Then Mason smirked and said loudly, “Dad says you deserve it.”
