The first time my sister Brenda called me a gold digger, she did it with a laugh.
It wasn’t funny.
But people like Brenda always laugh when they say something cruel. It gives them room to pretend they were joking if anyone calls them on it later.
We were standing in my mother’s kitchen. Mom was at the stove pretending not to hear us, stirring soup she was too weak to eat much of anymore.
Chloe was sitting at the table scrolling through her phone, occasionally glancing up with the kind of bright interest people get when they sense a scene building and want front-row seats.
Brenda crossed her arms and said, “So that’s it? You’re really marrying him?”