“Mary, please stop. This isn’t—This isn’t appropriate.”
The plea lingers uncomfortably. Mary freezes, fingers poised to turn another page. For a moment, I think she recognizes the cruelty in what she is doing to Cillian. me, and Bea.
But then her face hardens. “I’m simply sharing happy memories, dear. There’s nothing inappropriate about family history, especially given your father’s situation.”
Bea’s eyes widen. What is going on? An undertone that I do not understand.
“That’s enough, Mother,” Cillian says, his voice low but carrying the weight of years of accumulated patience. “Put. The album. Away.”
It is not a request. The command hangs in the air between them, son challenging mother, adult confronting manipulator.
Mary looks up at him, genuine confusion crossing her features. She does not understand what she has done wrong, cannot comprehend why her narrative has been rejected.
“I’m just trying to make everyone feel welcome,” she insists. “To remember the lovely times we’ve all shared.”
“We haven’t all shared them,” Cillian corrects, gesturing toward me. “Star wasn’t there, and those moments are over. They’re not coming back.” He then returns to my side where his hand finds mine again.
Mary looks from our joined hands to Bea, seeking the ally she has spent the evening weaponizing.
“He’s right, Mary,” she says softly. “It’s over.”
“No,” she whispers, turning pages with increasing desperation. “Look, here we are at the engagement party. And here’s the shower your aunt hosted. And this—”
Each page flip grows more frantic.
I set my wine glass down on the hearth with quiet finality and meet Cillian’s eyes. We have already won. Not by confrontation or argument or matching Mary’s manipulations with our own. We have won by simply existing.
The fire cackles in the grate, consuming its fuel with quiet efficiency. Mary’s breathing grows more ragged as she turns the final pages, finding no salvation in the preserved past. Her desperate reach for control collapses in on itself.
No one speaks.
No one needs to.
The album lies open on Mary’s lap, its power spent, its narrative rejected. And in the sudden hush, with only the sound of flames consuming wood, something new begins to take shape.
Chapter 5
No one speaks. The only sound is Mary’s shallow breathing as she stares at images that failed to rewrite reality. The silence stretches, taut and dangerous, until she snaps it with sudden, brittle efficiency. She closes the album with a sharp snap that makes us all flinch.
“Dinner is served,” Mary announces, her voice slicing.
Just like that, we’re expected to pretend the last twenty minutes never happened.
Mary rises, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her perfectly tailored slacks. Her spine straightens as she recalibrates, shifting seamlessly to perfect hostess. The transformation would be impressive if it weren’t so terrifying.
“This way,” she commands, avoiding eye contact. Her heels click against the hardwood as she leads our reluctant procession from the family room.
Cillian’s fingers find mine, squeezing once before releasing. I take a deep breath and follow, aware of my red dress reflecting in every polished surface we pass. I understand his strategy of notengaging with his mother. I remember the term “gray rocking” in my college psychology class.
The dining room emerges through double doors. A crystal chandelier casts rainbows across white walls; silver candlesticks reflect the polished room. At the center stretches a mahogany table so dark and glossy it looks carved from obsidian. The wood gleams with generations of obsessive polishing.
White china sits at perfect intervals. I count five identical settings, each an island of porcelain and silver. Four settings cluster at one end, centered on a massive floral arrangement that leaves no room at the table’s head. The fifth setting is isolated.
I don’t need to ask which one is mine.
“Arthur,” Mary directs, gesturing to the first seat. Arthur moves to his designated spot without comment.
“Bea, here beside Arthur,” Mary continues, pulling out a chair. Bea hesitates momentarily before sliding into place.
