I walked down to the kitchen with a calmness that made everyone tense. The smell of hot chocolate had nothing to do with calmness—it was a psychological game. And I was going to win it.
Mom handed me the cup, her hands shaking. I took it, took a sip, and smiled.
“Thank you, Mom. Delicious. Just like you used to make when I was little.”
Angelika rubbed her hands together. Dad avoided eye contact. Emma, innocent, sat at the table, playing with a spoon in her cup.
