“Owen?”
Owen set Lily down but kept one hand on her shoulder.
“Where are her presents?”
Eleanor blinked.
“Under the tree, of course.”
“Then why hasn’t she opened them?”
“We were going to get to that.”
“After she washed everyone’s dishes?”
Lauren gave an irritated sigh.
“Don’t make this into something ugly.”
Owen turned to her.
“Was she included in the photographs?”
Lauren’s lips tightened.
“We took a few with the girls.”
“She is a girl.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes,” Owen said.
“I finally do.”
Eleanor stepped forward.
“She offered to help.”
Lily’s fingers curled into the fabric of Owen’s jacket.
Owen felt it.
“She is seven.”
“We teach children responsibility in this family.”
“Then where are Madison and Harper’s dish towels?”
Lauren stood.
“My daughters are guests.”
Owen looked at her for a long moment.
“And Lily isn’t?”
No one answered.
Lily stood beside him in her blue dress, damp at the cuffs, surrounded by torn wrapping paper from gifts she had not been allowed to open.
Owen looked at every face in the room.
His mother’s offended expression.
His sister’s impatience.
His father’s determination not to become involved.
And suddenly he understood that silence was not neutrality.