A cool breeze blew through the trees, rustling the dry leaves.

Juliette pulled her linen shawl tighter around her shoulders.

“I am not staying here to be insulted,” she said.

“You’re welcome to leave,” I said. “The driveway is clear.”

Juliette didn’t move toward her car, though.

Instead, she pulled her own phone out of her bag.

She began typing furiously, her long, manicured nails clicking against the glass screen.

“What are you doing?” Dan asked, his voice weary.

“Finding a solution,” Juliette said, not looking up. “Since my son is incapable of providing for his family on a holiday.”

“Mom, please don’t call Aunt Eleanor,” Dan begged. “She’ll never let me hear the end of it.”

“I’m not calling Eleanor,” Juliette said.

She turned her back to us, walking toward the far corner of the deck.

She spoke in a low, hushed voice into her phone, her shoulders tense and rigid.

Sarah watched her mother with a look of deep dread.

“She’s going to do something stupid,” Sarah whispered to me.

“Let her,” I said, picking up the dirty plates from the table. “I’m going inside to wash these.”