I froze.
“Why?”
“People are coming tonight.”
“Dad said both trees.”
“Your father isn't managing this event.”
Grandma quietly set her knitting down.
I said:
“He lives here.”
“So do I.”
“Then tell him when he gets home.”
Renee stared.
“Excuse me?”
My heart began beating faster.
I knew I had crossed whatever invisible line she believed existed.
But I had Grandma Pearl in the room.
That made me braver.
“Dad said both trees.”
“I’m not taking it down unless he agrees.”
Renee walked toward me.
“Amara, I am not asking again.”
Grandma spoke calmly.
“She heard you.”
Renee turned.
“Pearl, please.”
Grandma folded her hands.
“I’m sitting.”
“You are interfering.”
“No.”
“I’m observing.”
Renee looked back at me.
“Take the ornaments off.”
“No.”
My voice shook.
Still no.
Renee laughed once.
“You really think because your grandmother is here you can disrespect me?”
Grandma’s eyes narrowed.
I said:
“I’m not disrespecting you.”
“You are thirteen.”
“You don't decide what stays in my living room.”
“My dad does.”
There.
The wrong sentence.
Maybe.
Renee’s expression changed completely.
“You know what?”
She walked toward the tree.
Grandma stood.
“Renee.”
A warning.
Renee ignored her.
She grabbed the upper branches.
For one second I thought she was moving it.
Then she shoved.
Hard.
The base tipped.
I reached instinctively.
Too late.
The tree came down.
Glass exploded.
Lights snapped.
Branches hit the floor.
I screamed.
Not words.
Just sound.
I dropped to my knees.
The blue heart.
That was all I could think about.
The heart.
I searched among branches.
“Mom.”
I do not know why I said it.
Maybe grief does strange things.
I found pieces.
Blue glass.
White painted stars.