Hard. She stumbled into the coffee table. “Don’t touch her things,” I snarled.
Just then, my mother, Linda, walked out of the kitchen. She was wiping her hands on a dish towel, holding a large cake knife. She didn’t look at me.
She didn’t look at the crying child. She stared at the expensive bakery box on the table. “Stop fighting,” Linda commanded, though she only glared at me.
“You’re upsetting your father. Sarah, stop being stingy. If Karen needs the tablet, share it.
Family shares.”
“Does Karen share?” I asked. “Does Karen ever give anything?”
“Karen has a hard life,” my mother said dismissively. “You have money.
You can buy another one.”
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