“To family,” Derek proclaimed, raising his glass high. “You know, true family is about who shows up. Some people chase massive paychecks on the other side of the planet and think mailing a Christmas card is enough.” He paused, soaking in the polite, uncomfortable chuckles from Melissa and Sandra. “But the people who stay, the ones grinding under this roof—they are the true definition of home.”
Melissa smirked directly at me, raising her glass. “You can toast too, hun. From the kitchen.”
A woman from the cul-de-sac leaned toward June, whispering loudly, “Isn’t that Derek’s sister?”
“Yes,” Melissa answered for the room. “The one who works overseas. She’s terribly shy.”
That was the exact moment the dam broke.
Ellen Holloway, sixty-six years old, pushed her heavy wooden chair back and stood up. Her hands were visibly trembling, but her jaw was set like granite.
“Her name is Iris,” my mother said, her voice ringing clear and authoritative through the dining room. “And this is her home.”
