Chapter 4 - THE SUNDAY DINNER
(Word count: ~1,530 words)
Five days later, Sunday arrived.
Every three weeks, Derek’s family gathered at Carol’s sprawling suburban home in Connecticut for traditional family dinners. It was an event Derek lived for—a chance to stand around the patio grill with his father, Richard, sip aged scotch, and play the role of the successful, dutiful, suburban family man.
I spent an hour that morning getting dressed.
I chose a simple, elegant dark blue sweater dress that made the dark navy blue of my sling stand out in sharp, unmistakable contrast. I made sure my hair was done neatly, and I carefully managed my pain medication so my mind would be crystal clear.
When we pulled into Carol’s long, paved driveway, Derek turned off the engine and looked over at me in the passenger seat.
“Look,” Derek said, his voice dropping into that familiar, dismissive tone. “My dad’s had a stressful week at the office. Let’s keep things light today, alright? No complaining about your arm or how tired we are.”
I looked at him through the clear afternoon light. His face was smooth, untroubled, completely oblivious to the trap he had been walking into for three weeks.
“I won't complain about a thing, Derek,” I said softly, giving him a gentle, serene smile. “I promise.”
We walked inside.
The house smelled of garlic, roasted rosemary, and simmering red wine. Carol came out of the kitchen, wearing her linen apron, her sharp eyes instantly landing on my sling before moving to Derek, who was carrying both infant car seats into the foyer—a rare display of effort strictly designed for his parents' eyes.
Priya was already there, sitting on the patio sofa with her husband. Her eyes met mine across the living room, a quiet, knowing nod passing between us.
At 5:30 PM, we all sat down around Carol’s grand mahogany dining table.
The spread was impressive: a tender pot roast, roasted fingerling potatoes, fresh green beans, and a decanter of expensive Cabernet.
Richard, Derek’s father, raised his glass of red wine, letting out a deep, satisfied sigh as he looked around the full table.
“I want to propose a quick toast,” Richard said, his voice booming with patriarchal pride. “To my son, Derek. He’s been putting in late hours at the firm, working tirelessly to provide for his growing family while managing the chaos of newborn twins. I know how tough those early years are, son. I’m proud of you.”
“Hear, hear,” Priya’s husband chimed in, raising his glass.
Derek beamed, sitting up straighter in his leather chair, taking a slow sip of his wine with the relaxed air of an accomplished hero.
I set my fork down onto my porcelain plate with a tiny, sharp clink.
I raised my crystal water glass with my left hand, holding it high in the air, my face calm, composed, and absolutely radiant.
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“To Derek,” I said, my voice carrying clearly across the quiet dining room. “Who told me last week that moms don't get sick days.”
Every single fork around that table stopped moving simultaneously.
