Squeezing between Mom’s chair and the wall to get seated for supper, I realize for the first time how much extra effort I’ve spent all these years for the sake of everyone else’s convenience. My spot at the table, and in the family, has been at the back far corner of anyone’s concern.
I’ve always gotten praised for taking the least amount of space, being the quietest, giving up the good seats for a spot on the floor, eating the leftovers in the fridge, and making use of the hand-me-downs everybody else is too good for. I must’ve gotten so used to it that I’ve picked up the habit of choosing the worst for myself on my own, even when my family isn’t around to praise me for it.
Knock, knock, knock. Toni steals away from the table with her pork barbecue sandwich in hand, leaving her homemade French fries and chocolate milkshake to rest while she answers the door.
I sip my chocolate shake, imagining it’s someone coming with a message for me, a telegram from God saying sorry we made a mistake and a swift correction is in order. We’re taking you to your real family now. But Toni comes back to the table as quickly as she left, with half of her sandwich gone already, announcing with her mouth still full that it was just the neighbor kid looking for her lost dog.
“I hate kids,” George laughs, looking out of the sides of his squinty eyes like we’re all in on some joke. “They always come to your door right at suppertime.”
Toni and I lock eyes. Hate kids? That makes me want to take my plate and my shake and go eat in my room, but that would mean I’d have to suck in my breath and squeeze behind Mom’s chair again. I look at Grandma to see her reaction to what George just said. She’s sitting sweetly in her own world, looking mighty thin actually, and pale, eating a few bits of pork with her fork.
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