Chapter 10 - The Price of Neutrality
One year after the fateful Thanksgiving dinner, on an unseasonably warm November afternoon, I was sitting on the back patio of my newly purchased craftsman home on the north side of the city.
The garden was ablaze with autumn colors—maple leaves of deep gold and amber falling onto the freshly mowed grass. Inside, the smell of roasted chicken and rosemary drifted from the kitchen. I wasn't hosting a massive feast, just an intimate dinner for three: myself, my father, and Maya, a talented interior designer I had met through work six months prior.
Dad arrived at four, carrying a box of apple cider donuts from the local orchard. He looked healthier than he had in a decade. The heavy, defeated hunch in his shoulders was gone, replaced by the relaxed demeanor of a man who no longer carried another person’s lies on his back.
"Smells incredible in there, son," Dad said, wrapping me in a solid, unhurried hug. "Maya already inside?"
"Setting the table," I smiled. "She brought her mother's cranberry chutney."
"Actual chutney? Not the canned stuff Eleanor used to scrape into a dish?" Dad chuckled, shaking his head. "I'm officially moving up in the world."
We spent the afternoon talking about everything and nothing—football, Dad’s new fly-fishing hobby, Maya’s upcoming design exhibition. There was no tension, no undercurrent of unspoken demands, no need to navigate emotional landmines. For the first time in my adult life, a holiday felt like peace.
As the sun began to dip behind the pine trees, casting long blue shadows across the lawn, my doorbell rang.
Maya poked her head out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron. "Are we expecting someone else, Ethan?"
"No," I frowned, standing up from the patio chair. "Must be an Amazon delivery. I’ll go check."
May you like
I walked through the warm hallway, unlatching the heavy oak front door with an easy smile on my face.
Standing on my porch, shivering in a thin trench coat with no luggage and her mascara running down her cheeks, was Paige.
