Naomi walked straight to Faith, took her hand, squeezed it once. "You don't have to stay long, baby." Faith squeezed back. "I know, Mama." But she didn't leave. Not yet. She had no idea what was coming.
The first hit didn't come from a hand. It came from a label—or the lack of one. Buffet time. Eleanor had set up the dessert table herself. Every dish had a little white card in front of it, handwritten, elegant. Eleanor's lemon pound cake. Donna's strawberry trifle. Aunt Ruthie's pecan pie. Faith's peach cobbler sat at the far end of the table. No card. No name. Pushed to the edge like an afterthought.
A woman Faith didn't recognize picked up a spoon and leaned over the cobbler. "Oh, this smells amazing. Who made this?" Donna, Brett's wife, walked past and didn't even stop. "I think the caterers brought that one." Faith was standing right there. Close enough to touch the table. She spoke up, calm and clear. "Actually, that's mine. It's my mama's recipe." Donna turned around, looked Faith up and down, then smiled. The kind of smile that has teeth but no warmth. "Oh, how ethnic." Two women behind Donna laughed. Not loud, just enough.
Faith felt the heat crawl up her neck, but she didn't react. She never reacted. Nine years of practice. Naomi was watching from a bench under the oak tree. She saw the whole thing. Her hands folded in her lap, her jaw tight. She didn't move. Not because she didn't want to, but because Faith had asked her not to. "Please, Mama. I can handle it." Naomi whispered to herself, "Lord, give me strength."
The cobbler was gone in 20 minutes. Every last bite. No one complimented Faith. Not once. That was the first cut.
The second came from Brett. Brett Anderson was the kind of man who said terrible things and called them jokes. He'd learned it from his father, perfected it with age. He stood by the barbecue pit with a Budweiser in one hand and the microphone in the other. The band had handed it to him for the family toast.
"All right, all right. Welcome, everybody. Another year, another Anderson reunion. The greatest family in Fluvanna County." Cheers. Clapping. Whistles. Brett grinned. "Now, I see a lot of familiar faces out here and a couple unfamiliar ones." His eyes drifted to Faith, then to Naomi. He didn't say their names. He didn't have to. "But hey, that's what America's all about, right? Open doors, even when you didn't open them yourself." More laughter.
Faith stood still, her hand around a plastic cup of sweet tea, her knuckles whitening. Brett wasn't done. "You know, I was telling my buddy the other day, Todd's got more diversity in his bedroom than most companies got in their whole building." The crowd erupted. Todd, standing in the circle of men near the smoker, cracked a half smile, didn't say a word.
Faith's stomach turned. She looked at the ground, took a breath, then looked back up. Because that's what Faith Underwood did. She looked things in the eye. Brett spotted her staring. He tilted his beer toward her. "Aw, come on now. I'm just playing with you, girl. You know we love having you around. Somebody's got to keep the place colorful."
A man next to him nearly spit out his drink laughing. Faith turned to walk away. As she did, she heard Brett mutter, just loud enough, "Hair like that, I'm surprised she didn't set off the smoke alarm." He was talking about her natural hair, the curls she spent an hour shaping that morning, the curls her mama taught her to love when she was 6 years old.
Faith kept walking. Naomi saw her daughter cross the yard, saw the way her shoulders pulled in, the way her steps got quicker. Naomi stood up from the bench, but Faith held up one hand without turning around. A signal. Not yet, Mama.
The third cut came from Eleanor. 3:00. Family photo time. Eleanor had hired a professional photographer. She gathered the family in front of the big oak tree. The same tree the Andersons had taken photos under for three decades. Everyone shuffled into place. Todd stood in the second row. Faith moved to stand beside him. She smiled, adjusted her dress.
Eleanor walked over. Not to Faith, to the photographer. She spoke just loud enough for the front row to hear. "Let's do the first one with just Andersons. Blood family only." Faith blinked. The photographer looked confused. "Ma'am, I thought—" "Blood family only." Eleanor's voice was ice wrapped in silk.
Faith stepped back. No one told her to. No one had to. Donna nudged her daughter into Faith's spot. Didn't even look at her. Brett called out from the back row. "Don't worry, Faith. We'll take one with the help later."
This time, somebody gasped. A woman near the edge, one of the neighbors, covered her mouth. But she didn't say anything. None of them did.
Faith stood 15 ft away, alone. The camera flashed. The family smiled. She watched her husband pose with the people who had spent nine years pretending she didn't exist. Naomi walked up behind her daughter, put her hand on her back, said nothing. Because sometimes there are no words. Sometimes all you can do is stand next to someone and let them know they're not invisible.
The photo took 2 minutes. It felt like 2 hours. After the photographer finished, Faith pulled Todd behind the old barn, away from the tents, away from the crowd. The smell of rust and damp wood hung in the air.