Rice piled on my plate like a cold white ant bed. Mom adjusted her glasses again. Perry dug her tongue into her cheek. She exaggerated a sigh, and Mom took the bait.

 

“Don’t you like the rice, Perry?”

 

“Not hungry.”

 

“Gram said Chinese was your favorite,” Mom said. She cut a limp vegetable and popped it in her mouth.
 

“Not yours,” Perry replied coldly.

Mom’s proud posture humbled itself. I looked at Perry; she was unrepentant. I lowered my eyes and poked at my food, silently wishing the divorce had only separated Mom from Dad.