Her face brightened. Her lips parted as if she were going to deny it again, but instead, she let out a strained laugh.
“Oh, come on. That’s not… that’s not what I meant! I didn’t mean that, obviously. I wasn’t trying to poison anyone, if that’s what you’re thinking!”
Embarrassed woman with hands on face | Source: Pexels
Embarrassed woman with hands on face | Source: Pexels
I watched the muscles in her jaw move; it was a small, quick movement that she probably thought was invisible. The room felt too hot, as if the oven was still on. Nora shifted in her chair and folded her napkin into a stiff square.
“So, what did you put on the cake, Lisa?” Michael asked.
She hesitated, just long enough to tell the truth before choosing. Joseph’s eyes were fixed on the tablecloth, as if he could find a better answer sewn among the threads.
“Pepper. Salt. A little sand, maybe,” she said finally. “Nothing harmful, of course. Just enough to spoil the taste.”
Salt and pepper shakers | Source: Unsplash
Salt and pepper shakers | Source: Unsplash
“Why?” I asked. My throat was tight, the word stuck in my throat. “Why did you do that?”
She looked at Joseph, then at me. Her mask cracked, hairline fractures rushing across her face.
“Because, Elaine, it’s always your cooking everyone’s talking about!” she fumed. “We talk about your house, your dinners, your damn pastries.” And then… this inheritance thing! You have the family home and the family jewels. Joseph got the farm and a ten-year-old Subaru. We smiled the whole time while you played the golden girl. I just wanted to put you in your place.”
I didn’t know what to say.
The exterior of a house | Source: Pexels
The exterior of a house | Source: Pexels
My brother shifted uncomfortably next to her but didn’t say a word. I could hear the twins breathing somewhere behind him. I wondered if they understood any of this, or if it would become just another story their parents would tell later, filed under the heading “How We Were Wronged.”
“I didn’t really mean to hurt you guys,” Lisa said again, a hint of bitterness in her voice. “It was meant to be trivial. Not deadly.”
“But you still said it,” I replied. My voice sounded calmer than it actually was. “That it would be our downfall. And you knew the children were running around… you still did it? ”
“It was a joke,” she hissed, though her voice broke halfway through. “A figure of speech, Elaine.”
A frustrated woman holding her head | Source: Pexels
A frustrated woman holding her head | Source: Pexels
“Some jokes have repercussions, Lisa,” my father said calmly. “And they hurt. As for Elaine, the darling daughter? She takes care of us. She brings us groceries and helps her mother cook. Michael comes to help me around the house. We fixed the gutters last week… something I’ve been asking Joseph to do for months. ”
“So say what you want, Lisa,” my mother said. “But don’t you dare pick on Elaine. She and Michael deserve everything they get. Joseph, you’re lazy. It’s as simple as that.”
No one spoke. No one moved. Somewhere down the hall, the thermostat clicked as if registering the drop in temperature none of us could accept.
A woman busy in a kitchen | Source: Pexels
A woman busy in a kitchen | Source: Pexels
Finally, Joseph stood up and placed a hand on Lisa’s arm.
“We should go,” he said simply.
Lisa tried to protest, but her protests got stuck in her throat. He guided her to the door, his arm still resting on hers. Their children followed, confused and sleepy, clutching party favors that suddenly seemed ridiculous.
No one stopped them. The door clicked shut behind them, like the last note of a song no one wanted to hear.
A man standing outside with his hands on his head | Source: Unsplash
A man standing outside with his hands on his head | Source: Unsplash
A long silence fell. Michael rubbed the bridge of his nose. Nora grabbed a trash bag without being asked and began collecting used forks and napkins.
My mother murmured something about making tea and headed into the kitchen. My father stood next to Michael, not touching him, but close enough for the gesture to matter.
I collapsed on the floor, the cold tiles pressing against my knees, as I gathered the pieces of the ruined cake onto paper towels, scooping the frosting into soft folds, and sighed. Michael knelt beside me and helped me sweep the pieces of the broken tray into a trash bag. His hand brushed mine once, then again, steadying me, asking no more.
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