Chapter 20: The Microphone

At Table Four, Cynthia stood up.

Russell had nodded to her from the head table, and she rose slowly, with one hand on her chair.

Two hundred faces turned to look at her.

"Cynthia Wickham," Russell said warmly into the microphone. "Hannah's birth mother. Without her, none of us would be here."

A few guests clapped, unsure.

The board members at Table Three exchanged glances.

Cedric's father frowned at his plate.

"And I'd also like to thank," Russell said, flipping to the next card, "Joanna, who helped raise her."

He looked at me and smiled.

I stood up.

I did not mean to.

I only knew that if I stayed in my chair, the sentence would stay in the room, and Hannah would have to live in it.

I walked around the table in my navy dress and held out my hand.

"I'll take that," I said.

"Jo, sit down."

"Give me the microphone, Russell."

"You're making a scene."

"You've been making one for twenty-three years. I'm only the first to say so."

He kept the microphone against his chest.

Hannah had risen at the head table.

She said nothing, and she did not need to.

Russell looked at her face, and his hand loosened.

I took the microphone.

It was warm from his palm.

The hall was so quiet I could hear the ice settle in the water glasses.

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