Chapter 7 - THE RETURN TO THE TABLE
The drive to my parents' house took thirty-five minutes.
It was 8:45 PM when I pulled into the gravel driveway. The house was brightly lit—the living room lamps casting warm golden rectangles across the manicured lawn. My father's truck was parked near the garage, beside my mother's silver sedan.
I didn't knock. I used the spare key I had kept on my ring for ten years, unlocked the front door, and stepped into the foyer.
The house smelled of Mom's lavender air freshener and roast chicken. From the dining room, I heard the sound of my father's voice, raised in angry argument.
"...she has no right!" Dad was shouting, his fist slamming against the wooden dining table. "After everything I've done for this family! She's doing this out of pure spite, Susan! She wants to humiliate me in front of Everett Hail!"
"Paul, please," my mother's voice whimpered. "Lower your voice. What if the neighbors hear?"
"I don't care about the neighbors!" Dad roared. "I care about my reputation! If Hail finds out she spent nine years as a janitor while I was bragging about her working in administration, I'll be the laughingstock of the alumni board!"
I stepped out of the foyer and into the entrance of the dining room.
Dad was standing at the head of the long mahogany table, holding a half-empty glass of scotch. Mom was sitting in her usual seat, dabbing at her red eyes with a cloth napkin.
When Dad saw me standing in the doorway, he stopped mid-sentence. His glass froze halfway to his lips.
"Chloe," Mom gasped, jumping up from her chair. "Oh thank God! You came back! Your sister said you blocked our numbers—"
"Where is Megan?" Dad interrupted, his eyes narrowing instantly. "She went looking for you two hours ago."
"She's at my apartment," I said, my voice cutting through the warm room like a steel blade. "She found something in your attic filing cabinet, Dad."
Dad's face went completely white.
The scotch glass in his hand trembled slightly, the ice cubes clinking against the crystal. "What are you talking about?"
I walked slowly down the side of the mahogany table—past the seat where Megan usually sat, past the framed photographs on the wall—and stopped at the seat at the far end. The seat where I had sat for thirty-four years.
I reached into my bag, pulled out the yellowed paper envelope, and set it down directly on top of the polished wood, right where my cream-colored gala invitation had sat three weeks ago.
The red ink seemed to glow under the chandelier light: DO NOT DELIVER.
My mother leaned forward, looking at the yellowed crest on the corner. "Paul... what is that?"
May you like
Dad didn't answer. He stared at the envelope as if it were a poisonous viper coiled in the middle of his dining room.
"It's my mail, Mom," I said softly. "It was delivered to our mailbox sixteen years ago. Dad just forgot to hand it to me."
