You can sit at the kids’ table, Eliza. The adult chairs are for people

I walked past the kids’ table. Past Brielle’s smug grin. I set the gift bag down at the head of the room, right next to the champagne tower, and I unzipped my coat. “Before I find my seat,” I said, “I’d like to give my brother his wedding gift early. Since apparently I won’t be sitting close enough to hand it to him tomorrow.” Daniel finally looked up. I pulled the envelope out and slid it across the table. He opened it. His face went white. Brielle leaned over, still smirking — until she read it too. It was the deed. To the brownstone in Park Slope. The one Daniel and Brielle had been renting for three years from a “mystery landlord” who kept their rent two thousand under market because, Brielle bragged, “some people just recognize quality tenants.” That mystery landlord was me. I bought it the month Daniel got engaged, as a wedding gift I was planning to sign over at the reception. Brielle’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. “You?” she whispered. “Me,” I said. “The sister-in-law who doesn’t contribute.” I picked the envelope back up. “Daniel, I love you. The house is still yours — if you want it in your name only. Otherwise, I’m listing it Monday at market rate, and you have sixty days.” My mother set down her napkin for real this time. Brielle laughed, sharp and panicked. “You can’t be serious. That’s our home.” “It’s my building,” I said softly. “I just let you live in it.” Daniel stood up. He walked the length of that long table, past every stunned cousin and aunt, and he pulled out the chair beside his own at the head. “Sit here, Eliza.” Brielle started to protest. He didn’t even turn around. “Brielle. The kids’ table is open.” I sat down. I poured myself a glass of champagne from the good bottle. And for the first time in two years, I tasted something other than silence.