Chapter 10 - Sunday Dinner Reborn
By Sunday evening, the house was completely settled.
The moving boxes had been broken down and stacked neatly in the garage. Roxan’s plants occupied every sunny corner of the south-facing porch, their green leaves glowing in the afternoon light. Barnaby had already claimed the sheepskin rug directly in front of the crackling fireplace, sleeping on his back with his paws curled peacefully in the air.
In the kitchen, the aroma of roasted chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, and rosemary gravy filled the air.
It was 5:30 p.m.
Just as we had done every Sunday for ten years, Roxan and I sat down at the table together. Only this time, the table wasn't peeling formica in a cramped duplex with sirens wailing outside the window. It was solid white oak, looking out over a sunset that painted the lake in shades of violet, amber, and deep rose.
"Your father called my cell phone yesterday," Roxan said quietly as she passed me the bowl of potatoes.
I paused, my fork hovering in the air. "What did he say?"
"He didn't yell," Roxan said, looking down at her plate. "He sounded broken, Marlo. He said he was sorry. He said he never meant for things to go so far, that Helen had convinced him you were just rebelling and that you’d come crawling back in a week. He asked if there was any way we could ever sit down as a family again."
I took a bite of dinner, chewed slowly, and looked out across the peaceful water.
"What did you tell him, Roxan?"
Roxan set her fork down and reached across the table, taking my hand just as she had done on Christmas night.
"I told him that family isn't something you throw away when it's inconvenient and pick back up when it gets rich," she said firmly. "I told him that you had already built your family right here at this table. And that if he truly wanted peace, he needed to leave you alone and learn how to live with the choices he made."
A profound sense of closure washed over me. For ten years, I had carried the invisible weight of that rainy night—the humiliation of being unwanted, the burning need to prove that I was worthy of love and respect. But sitting here, in this warm, beautiful home, watching the sunset reflect in my aunt’s peaceful eyes, I realized that I had nothing left to prove to anyone.
The ghosts were finally gone.
"Thank you, Roxan," I whispered.
She smiled, her eyes crinkling with warmth. "Eat your potatoes, baby. They’re getting cold."
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We finished our dinner in companionable silence, listening to the gentle crackle of the fireplace and the distant, rhythmic lap of the lake against the dock. For the first time in my adult life, the world felt completely, undeniably right.
***
