Aaron noticed it before anyone else did—I wonder if he could read something in my dad’s thoughts that gave him a heads-up he was about to use his telekinesis. The pepper mill started floating on the table before spinning toward the other end where my dad was casually eating like nothing was strange. Aaron snatched it out of the air just as Emily looked up. Her eyes narrowed but there’s no way she saw anything. There’s no way. She would have said something if she saw a pepper mill move on its own, right?

“Here you go, Dad,” Aaron said pointedly. My dad looked up at Aaron’s outstretched hand and immediately paled, realizing what he’d done. He silently took the pepper mill, with his actual hand, and my mom jumped in with a funny story about work that took up enough oxygen in the room to cover up what had just happened.

I’m not mad at him. I’m really not. He explained everything after Emily left—

“I forgot, Rose,” he said, sadness in his eyes. “I completely forgot that she didn’t know. I wasn’t thinking, I’m so sorry—”

“Dad, really, it’s fine,” I assured him. “It’s not your fault. And I don’t think Emily saw anything, so we’re all good.”

“Not that your brother’s outburst was much help either,” my mom muttered.

“I was nervous!” Aaron said, “I didn’t mean to listen but her anxieties jumped out!”

“Guys, really, it’s okay,” I said, placating everyone as I got up to get another piece of pie. “Emily had a good time and nothing terrible happened.”

And that’s true—the whole dinner actually went really well. It was the after-dinner conversation that’s left me with a slightly sour taste in my mouth. My family loved Emily. After the finger-pointing portion was over, they went on and on about how interesting she was, how clever, how charismatic. All the things that unaccomplished, laser-focused, friendless Rose is not. I think my mother would have adopted Emily on the spot and by the end of dinner, Emily and Aaron were halfway to having their own inside jokes.

I know that Emily puts her whole heart into everything she does, I’ve seen it—her intense commitment to school, her writing, her friends, her family—but it stings that being loved by my family came so easily to her. It’s not her fault. I’m not even sure it’s my family’s fault. I’ve never screamed at them, “Pay attention to ME!” and so they haven’t. They’re just doing what they’ve always done—eating my food, being themselves, and tolerating my existence.

11-25-2016, morningwaffles, text post