Seraphina's Point Of View
"I think we should go," I said softly, tracing the rim of my wine glass with a fingernail, watching the light catch and dance in the burgundy liquid like tiny rubies suspended in time.
Mom stopped her rhythmic pounding of the sourdough immediately. She stood up straight, wiping a stray clump of wet flour off her forearm, and shook her head flatly. "No, baby. I don't want to."
Her voice carried that particular finality I'd heard a thousand times before… the tone that had gotten us through evictions, through hungry nights, through every impossible situation we'd ever faced. "I'm not setting foot in that house, and I'm certainly not sitting at a table with them."
