I glance at Dave. When his mom comes up in conversation, it’s usually because he mentions her, not someone else. It’s hard to guess what he’s thinking now. His face is made of stone. Pops flips to the next page. It’s Dad and Pops on the day of their wedding. I’m so little—maybe three or four years old, but I don’t remember exactly.

“Wow,” Miles says, glancing at me like he’s read my mind. “You were so small. Look at your hair.”

It’s the hairstyle every black girl has at one point: cornrows with multicolored beads attached at the end. I can still hear the click-clack that accompanied each of my footsteps.

“She was,” Pops says, smiling at me. “I don’t know what happened.”

I give him a teasing shove.

“Dios mío, the wedding,” Abuela says. “What a day. I saw it coming from the moment you two met. Even when you weren’t together, it was always clear that you were meant to be.”

Dave slams his glass down so hard that it cracks. I freeze in place. Silence echoes around the living room. His jaw moves up and down as he balls his hands into fists. I’ve seen him pissed and irritated, but not this angry.

“I don’t need to hear about this,” he says, his voice low. “And I don’t need to hear you talk about me and my mother like we were just mistakes on your road to happily ever after.”

He gets up, turning out of the room. I blink as he walks out, but all my words are gone.

“I’ll be back,” Dad grumbles. “Give me a minute.”

He rolls up his sleeves, footsteps heavy as he leaves the room. Miles nudges my shoulder, but I don’t look at him. I find my eyes drawn to the broken glass on the table. We only use these glasses when guests come over. Dave was drinking out of one of them.

“No me mientas,” Dave says from the other room. His voice is loud enough to vibrate the walls; I guess he was barely able to hold it in. “Am I supposed to think you aren’t happier with this new life of yours?”

I can’t hear what Dad is saying, but there’s a murmuring that must be him. I don’t know what he could say to make this situation any better. This will be hanging over us all weekend.

“I did not cheat on your mother,” Dad snaps. “And I will not have you speak to me without any respect—”

“Why should I have respect for someone who disrespects me?”

“Who wants seconds on dessert,” Abuela says, rubbing her hands together. “So that we don’t have to listen to this.”

Abuelo grinds his teeth, the same way Dave and Dad do. It’s weird to see the same mouth on three different people.