The turkey was dry. Of course, it was.

My mother could never get the time perfect, but no one ever criticized her since I was the only one who received criticism in our family.

“Claire, could you please pass the cranberry sauce?”

My sister Melissa’s voice was dripping with syrupy sweetness, which she had honed over 34 years as the beloved kid. Her diamond engagement ring reflected the light as she stretched across the table, nearly blinding me with its ostentation.

I handed her the sauce without commenting.

It had been 18 months since I had last sat at this table, and I could immediately recall why I had avoided it.

“So, Melissa’s wedding was absolutely spectacular,” Mom said, embarking on what had to be the 14th review of the event I hadn’t attended.

“The flowers alone cost more than most people’s cars, and the venue,” she went on. “That country club has a three-year waiting list, but Melissa’s fiancé—sorry, husband—has connections.”

“Ethan knows people everywhere,” Melissa said, clutching her husband’s arm.

He grinned that politician’s smile, which he had presumably perfected in the mirror.

“It’s one of the perks of being a successful litigation attorney.”

I sliced into my dry turkey without saying anything.

This was the game we played. They talked at me, not to me, and I was supposed to sit there and take it all in like an emotional punching bag wrapped in Christmas sweaters.

My dad cleared his throat.

“Clare, the ceremony was amazing. You truly missed something special.”

“I’m sure it was lovely,” I said, my tone calm. “Lovely.”

My mother’s fork clattered on her plate.

“It was the wedding of the century. Everyone who mattered in this town was present, including the Carters, Whitmans, and Mayor Collins.”

Melissa smiled wider.

“We had 320 guests. The response rate was fantastic. Almost everyone we invited arrived.”

I drank a glass of wine while waiting. A trap was being laid. I could feel it.

After 28 years of being disappointed, I recognized the pattern.

“Speaking of weddings,” Melissa remarked, her tone turning to the condescending tone she saved for me, “when are you going to settle down, Clare? You aren’t growing any younger, you know.”

There it was.

Mom interrupted before I could answer.

“She’s been dating him for four years now. What is his name again? James. John.”

“Daniel,” I said gently.

“Right. Daniel. What is he doing again? Something about computers?”

“He’s a software engineer at Microsoft.”

Melissa laughed, making a tinkling sound like broken glass.

“Oh, that’s correct. The IT man. Does he even have a suit?”

Ethan laughed politely at his wife’s joke.

My father stared at his plate with deep focus, as he often did when the discourse went harsh. He never took part in the attacks, yet he never stopped them either.

In some ways, his quiet hurt more than their words.

“When is the big day anyway?” Melissa continued, encouraged by her audience. “Is he dragging his feet? Men can tell when a woman is desperate. You know, it turns them off.”

I cautiously placed down my fork.

My heart pounded, but my hands remained firm.

This was it. The moment I had been dreading and expecting for eight months.

“Actually, I had my wedding already,” I informed them.

The total quiet that fell over the table allowed me to hear the grandfather clock ticking in the corridor.

Four faces looked at me with varied degrees of shock.

Melissa’s mouth had literally dropped open.

“You what?” Mom finally succeeded.

“I was married eight months ago. June 14th, to be precise.”

“That’s impossible,” Melissa said. “You didn’t—”

“You got invitations,” I said calmly, reaching up for my wine glass. “All of you did.”

My father discovered his voice.

“Claire, we never got an invitation. We would have come if we had received them.”

I took out my phone, sliding my fingers across the screen with practiced accuracy.

“Let me show you something.”

I’d had these screenshots for months, waiting for this precise time.

The first one displayed the certified postal tracking information. Five items, five addresses, all signed for on April 24th.

“Do you see this?” I turned the phone to my father. “This is a signature confirmation. Someone at this address signed all five invites.”

I focused closely on the signature line.

The scroll was obviously Melissa’s.

My sister’s face lost its color.

“That could be anything,” Mom said quickly, but her voice faltered.

I swiped to the next screenshot.

“This is an email confirmation from the stationery company. Custom invitations were bought in February and delivered in April. And here,” another swipe, “is my credit card statement, which shows I paid for priority mail express with signature confirmation to guarantee they came soon.”

“Melissa,” my father said quietly, but there was hardness beneath. “Did you sign for the letter intended for your mother and me?”

“I do not recall. Maybe I—”

Melissa’s demeanor was breaking like old paint.

“Let me refresh your memory. I was amazed at how calm I sounded, given how fast my heart was beating. April 24th was a Tuesday. You stopped by early to drop off Mom’s birthday present before departing for the conference in Denver. You offered to get the mail while you were here.”

“How can you remember that?” Ethan demanded, his legal instincts taking over to protect his wife.

“Because I contacted Mom that afternoon to check she got the invitation. She stated that no mail had arrived other than some catalogues. That seemed weird to me given that the tracking showed delivery at 10:42 a.m. When I studied the signature later, I recognized Melissa’s handwriting right away.”

Melissa’s face had changed from white to crimson.

“You had me investigated.”

“I phoned the post office. Hardly the FBI.”

I took another drink of wine, thankful that years of drama lessons in high school had taught me how to project confidence I didn’t really have.

“But you still haven’t responded to Dad’s query. Have you signed for our mail?”

“This is ridiculous,” Melissa said, standing quickly. “I don’t have to sit here and be accused—”

“Sit down.”

My dad’s voice cracked like a whip. I had never heard him use that tone before.

Melissa sat.

He looked at me, his expression confused and even wounded.

“Why aren’t you telling us? Even if we had missed the invites, you may have phoned.”

This was the question I had been preparing for. I had practiced it in therapy for weeks before agreeing to attend the dinner.

“I did call,” I said, my voice calm. “Several times. The first time was May 4th, following four weeks of radio quiet. Mom, you said you were busy preparing Melissa’s engagement party and would call me back. You did not.”

Mom opened her lips to complain, but I persisted.

“I phoned again on May 11th, got voicemail, and left a message that I was frightened since the wedding was just six weeks away and I hadn’t heard back from anybody. Nobody phoned back.”

I opened up my call log. I’d been backing up my phone records for months just for this time.

“On May 18th, I phoned Dad’s mobile and got voicemail. On May 20th, I texted the family group chat, which I now realize I am no longer a part of. I contacted the house line three times on May 25th. On May 29th, we issued an email to everyone.”

“We never got an email,” she asserted, because Melissa has access to the family email account and she deleted it.

I stared at my sister, who had become extremely motionless—exactly as she had erased the one I sent in April, shortly after mailing the invites.

“You can’t prove that,” Melissa muttered.

I retrieved the email account activity log.

“Daniel showed me how to check it. It turns out that if you were the one who created the family email account years ago, you still have recovery access.”

I gave Melissa a direct glance.

“The email was opened on April 26th at 8:36 p.m. from this house’s IP address and then erased forever. Someone did not want anyone else to see it.”

Ethan’s expression had changed from protective to calculating.

As a lawyer, he knew exactly what the evidence indicated.