“What? It’s a normal question.”
For a second, I imagine Melissa at this table. The thought is so absurd that I almost choke. She’d burn this entire room down with one honest sentence and not even realize she’d done it.
My father clears his throat. “Your schedule is probably difficult for … relationships.”
The way he says the word makes it sound like a foreign concept.
“Maybe,” I reply.
“And your temper doesn’t help,” my mother adds lightly, like it’s a joke.
A chill slides down my spine.
Aubrey sets her fork down with a soft clink. “That’s not fair.”
My mother looks at her, brows lifting. “It was an observation.”
“No,” Aubrey says, voice tightening. “It was a dig.”
I force my expression into neutral. “It’s fine.”
Aubrey’s eyes flash. “It’s not.”
I don’t want this to turn into a fight. Not because I care about their comfort, but because I can’t stand the sound of raised voices in this house. It’s like my body expects the other shoe to drop.
My mother exhales. “We’re only trying to connect.”
I laugh under my breath before I can stop myself.
My father’s gaze sharpens. “Something funny?”
I meet his eyes. “No.”
Dinner continues like that. It’s polite and controlled. Emotionally distant. Every word feels measured, weighed, approved before it’s allowed to exist.
At some point, my father mentions the old oak tree in the backyard. How they’re thinking about having it cut down.
“It’s dying,” he says plainly.
My stomach twists.
“Maybe it needs care,” I reply, sharper than intended.
He studies me for a moment. “Sometimes, care isn’t enough.”
The room goes quiet as that sits too close to the resentment none of us will name.
I push my chair back. “I need some air.”
No one stops me.
Outside, the backyard looks smaller than it used to. The oak tree still stands tall, branches stretching wide. Shadows pool beneath it.
I don’t go closer. I can’t.
I stand near the back steps, breathing in cold air, counting the seconds until I can leave. My eyes drift to the right, toward the side of the house where the windows are darker, curtains always drawn.
My feet move without permission, one step, then another, before my brain catches up.