“Cillian, darling, next to me of course,” Mary says, positioning herself like a monarch ascending her throne. The placement is deliberate: Cillian by his mother, directly across from his ex-wife. I am diagonal from him.
I remain standing until Mary’s gaze finally lands on me, acknowledging my existence with the minimum required politeness.
“Star,” she says. “There’s a place for you there.” Her hand waves vaguely toward the furthest seat away.
“There’s a draft near the head, dear,” she adds. “You’ll be warmer down there.”
The transparent excuse hangs. There is no draft. The temperature in this house is as meticulously controlled as every other aspect of Mary’s domain.
Cillian’s jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. “Mother,” he begins, his voice carrying a warning edge that promises confrontation.
Our eyes meet, and in that brief connection, I try to communicate everything I’m feeling.I’m okay. This isn’t worth the fight. Not yet. Save your ammunition.
His expression softens, understanding passing between us without words. We’ve built this language over months—a way to read each other’s thoughts in the smallest gestures. It’s something Mary can’t touch, can’t control, can’t understand.
“It’s fine,” I say quietly, just for him.
It’s not fine. We both know it.
I straighten my spine and begin the walk to my designated exile. The red dress brushes against my legs with each step. Now that choice feels like a target on my back as I sense every pair of eyes tracking my journey down the length of the table.
Arthur sighs. Bea offers a small, apologetic smile that makes everything worse. Cillian’s eyes never leave mine, his gaze a lifeline stretched across the growing distance. Only Mary watches with satisfaction, her lips curved.
I reach my designated place and pull out my chair. The legs scrape against the floor in an unintentionally loud sound that makes Mary wince. Great, now she’ll passive aggressively mention her scuffed floors. Still, I settle into the seat, the fine upholstery firm beneath me. From this position, I can see the entire table.
A uniformed server appears from a side door. Another joins, then a third. They move around the table, filling water glasses, placing bread baskets, adjusting silverware that doesn’t need adjustment. They work from Mary’s end downward, reaching me last. Naturally.
I smooth my napkin across my lap, the crisp linen beneath my fingers. The isolated place setting before me gleams with silver. I trace a finger along the edge of a fork, feeling its weight, its history, its belonging. These objects have sat at this table for generations. They have more right to be here than I do.
But unlike them, I can choose to leave.
The thought steadies me. This isn’t my prison. Real life awaits outside these doors in the messy, colorful, honest life Cillian and I have built.
I meet Cillian’s eyes across the distance and offer a small smile. Not defeated. Not broken. Just waiting. Watching.
Mary lifts her water glass in a gesture meant to signal the official start of dinner. “Shall we?” she asks, though it’s not really a question.
Dinner has begun.
Distance transforms them into a diorama of family perfection. Their voices easily reach me but because of the angle, unless someone is staring right at me, I’m inconvenient to notice. Which is how I observe Mary lean toward Cillian, her hand touching his sleeve with possessiveness as she speaks. The gesture radiates ‘I am his mother, and what I say goes.’
“The governor sends his regrets,” Mary announces to the table at large, though her eyes remain on her immediate circle. “The snowstorm has delayed his return from Albany.”
Arthur makes a noncommittal sound from his end of the table. He sits with perfect posture, yet something about him suggests detachment rather than engagement. His eyes occasionally flicker toward me, a hint of sympathy crossing his features before disappearing behind his practiced neutrality.
“I suppose we’ll have to manage without political conversation this evening,” Mary continues, as if this is a genuine hardship.
Bea shifts in her seat, fingers plucking at her napkin’s edge. She folds and refolds the corner, creating and smoothing invisible creases.
“I had Cook prepare the scallops with that reduction you love,” Mary says. “Remember when you and Cillian discovered it in Newport?”
“Yes,” she murmurs, eyes on her plate.
“What do you think of the Bordeaux?”
“It’s lovely,” she responds automatically, though she hasn’t yet sipped.
“My father is a sommelier,” I say to everyone and no one in particular.
