Chapter 13 - Dad Said We Weren't Hiding Anymore
The cake was right behind me. I could smell the frosting, sweet and thick, and I could see the white roses shaking a little every time someone bumped the table. The music had not stopped, but nobody near us was dancing anymore. They were just standing with their drinks, looking over and then looking away fast.
Grandmother still had her champagne. Her hand was tight around it. She smiled at the people closest to us, that big party smile.
"Andy," she said low, so only we could hear it under the smile. "Do you see the donors watching? There are photographers by the columns. Please do not do this here."
Dad did not look at the donors. He looked at Mom. Mom's hair was wet on the ends from the cold outside, and her shoes made a little squeak sound on the shiny floor. She kept one hand on my back.
"She's my wife," Dad said. His voice was not loud, but it carried because everyone was being quiet around the cake. "She belongs inside. Not outside. Not in the hallway. She's family, Mother. Not staff."
A woman in a black dress whispered something to the man next to her. I heard the word kitchen. I squeezed my bread harder. The plastic bag crackled, and I felt stupid for making noise.
Grandmother heard it too. She glanced down at my shirt, at the pink with the dark spots, at the bag in my fist.
"Then at least put that away," she said to me, still smiling. "Honey, give the bag to one of the girls. You're getting crumbs everywhere. You look—"
"She looks like a kid who was hungry," Dad cut in.
He knelt down next to me right there in front of everybody. His knee popped on the floor. He did not try to take the bread from me.
"Hey," he said to me, quieter. "You don't have to hide that. Okay? You don't have to hide your shirt either."
I nodded, but my throat felt hot. I did not want to cry in front of all those people. I stared at his tie instead of their faces.
Grandmother leaned in. I could smell her perfume, flowery and strong.
"Andy, if you walk her through the VIP photos like this, people will talk," she said. "They will say I couldn't even control my own family night. Think about what that does to the foundation. Think about next year."
That was when Dad stood back up. He breathed in once, slow, and I saw his shoulders go up and down.
"I have thought about it," he said. "Every year I think about it. And every year I pick the quiet way so you don't get embarrassed."
He reached out and took Mom's hand. Just took it, fingers laced, like they were at church or something. Mom looked surprised for a second, then she held on tight.
"We're going to sit somewhere normal," Dad said to Grandmother. "Not up front. Not for pictures. My girls are going to eat, and I'm going to stay with them."
Grandmother's smile dropped for just a second. "You would leave the head table? During my speech?"
"Yes," Dad said.
He bent and lifted me up with his other arm. I was getting too big for him to carry easy, and he grunted a little, shifting me onto his hip. My bag swung against his suit jacket. A tiny crumb fell on his black sleeve and stayed there. He didn't brush it off.
"Come on," he said to Mom.
May you like
And he turned. He turned his back on Grandmother and on the cake and on all the people watching by the columns. I could see Grandmother still standing there holding her glass, with the chandelier light shining off her pearls. She didn't call after us.
Mom walked close beside us, her hand still in Dad's, her other hand steady on my leg so I wouldn't slip. The crowd made a little path without meaning to, stepping back with their shiny shoes. The music kept playing, but it sounded far away now.
