I had always been so proud of that.
Emma was mature. Thoughtful. Easy. Before every family gathering, she’d send little texts to keep everyone on track.
Dinner’s at six, Mom.
Dad’s coming too, just so you know.
Sophie, please be nice tonight.
I always thought that was just Emma being Emma. At twenty-five, she could walk into a room holding both of her divorced parents and somehow get everyone to behave.
What I had never once asked myself was why she’d become so good at it.
Part Six: The Toasts
The toasts began after dinner.
Michael’s father spoke first. Then the best man.
Then it was Sophie’s turn.
I spent her entire speech bracing myself. I was sure she’d say something about Kristen, or Tom.
She didn’t.
Sophie talked about sharing a tiny bedroom with Emma when they were little. About stealing her sweaters and pretending she hadn’t. About calling Emma from her college dorm at two in the morning whenever she was homesick, and how Emma always picked up, every single time.
She made the whole room laugh. She made Emma cry.
Then she raised her glass, kissed her sister on the cheek, and sat down.
