It happened on a Sunday night that was supposed to be quiet.
The kind of evening where the smell of roasted chicken fills every corner of the house, where mashed potatoes steam softly in serving bowls, where laughter drifts easily across a familiar dining room. My mother’s table—polished, warm, and worn from decades of family meals—was set as beautifully as ever, glowing under the yellow kitchen lights.
We should have known that peace never lasts long in our family.
Not with Caroline there.
My sister, as always, was the center of gravity in the room. Her voice rose above the others, bright and confident, holding every conversation hostage as she went on about her upcoming trip to Europe. A “romantic escape,” she called it, though she’d told each of us a different version of who the romance was actually with.
It was typical Caroline—charming, dramatic, slightly reckless, always dancing on the edge of chaos.
But none of us expected the chaos to arrive so suddenly.
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