Chapter 2 - The Walkout
The silence in that dining room was heavy enough to suffocate a grown man.
I looked at my mother. Her hands rested squarely on the porcelain serving bowl, her posture straight, her chin tilted slightly upward in that defiant angle she always used when she knew she was wrong but refused to yield. To her, "neutrality" wasn't peace. It was an excuse to avoid taking a stand, a coward’s disguise painted as maternal wisdom.
"Neutral?" My voice cracked slightly before settling into a cold, steady register. "Mom, she slept with Mark. In my bed. For six months while I worked eighty hours a week to pay off her student loans."
"Ethan, please," Paige whispered, her knuckles whitening around her fork. "Not today. It’s Thanksgiving."
"You knew," I said, turning my eyes to Paige. "You called me two days ago to make sure I’d show up. You were setting me up."
Paige looked down at her lap, unable to meet my gaze. Uncle Ray cleared his throat loudly, shifting his bulky frame in his chair. "Son, families go through rough patches. Claire is still part of this family’s history. You can’t just erase seven years because things went sideways."
"Things didn't go sideways, Ray," I spat out, dropping the 'Uncle' title entirely. "She wrecked my life, and Mark helped her do it. And you all decided to invite her into my sanctuary and hand her a glass of wine."
Claire finally set her glass down with a delicate clink. Her eyes were rimmed with red, playing the fragile victim she had mastered throughout our divorce proceedings. "Ethan, I only wanted to apologize in front of everyone. I wanted to show you that we could be civil."
"Civil?" I took a step back toward the hallway. "You don't get to perform your redemption arc on my time. And you sure as hell don't get to use my family as your audience."
"Ethan James Miller!" Mom barked, setting the bowl down with enough force to slosh gravy onto the tablecloth. "You will not speak to our guests like that in this house! Sit down, eat your meal, or you can leave!"
Dad flinched at Mom’s tone, his eyes begging me for something—forgiveness, silence, obedience—I didn't care which. He had spent thirty years letting my mother dictate reality, and I wasn't about to inherit his spine.
"Leave?" I let out a dry, hollow laugh that startled even myself. "Don't worry, Mom. I’m already gone."
May you like
I reached into my pocket, pulled out the silver house key to their front door—the key I had carried since I was sixteen years old—and dropped it onto the hardwood floor. It clattered loudly, skidding to a stop right against Claire’s designer heels.
"Have a wonderful Thanksgiving," I said, turning on my heel. "Because as far as I'm concerned, none of you exist anymore."
