Mary pauses mid-sentence, her expression registering brief confusion at the interruption from the far end of her carefully orchestrated tableau. She doesn’t quite look at me directly, her gaze landing somewhere near my shoulder instead.
“Yes?” she says, the single syllable dripping with impatience.
I straighten in my chair, leaning forward just enough to establish presence without appearing aggressive. “I’d like to respond to your toast,” I say.
Now she looks at me, her eyes narrowing slightly. Arthur’s eyebrows lift in surprise. Bea freezes with her water glass halfway to her lips. Cillian’s eyes crinkle at the corner in a way of saying, “You got this, babe.” The servers hovering at the periphery seem to collectively hold their breath.
“I think we’ve moved well past the toast,” Mary says with a dismissive wave. “Now, as I was saying about Cillian’s graduation—”
“Tradition is lovely, Mrs. Brown,” I continue steadily, refusing to be sidelined, “but the present is where we actually live. And Cillian is very happy in the present.”
“Extremely,” Cillian interjects.
The room hushes. Scrape of cutlery halts, even breathing seems collectively paused.
Red flush rises from Mary’s neck to her cheeks. Her fingers tighten around the stem of her wine glass until her knuckles mirror the white tablecloth beneath them. For a moment, I think the crystal might shatter in her grip.
“And what would you know about my son’s happiness,” she snaps, even though Cillian just agreed with me, “compared to thirty years of history?”
The question cracks across the room. There’s no pretense now, no veneer of politeness. Just Mary’s raw fear and anger, exposed for all to see.
I hear movement beside me—the soft scrape of a chair being pushed back, footsteps crossing the hardwood floor. Cillian appears at my side, his presence solid and warm as he places a hand against my back. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t insert himself between us. He simply stands beside me in unification.
Mary’s eyes widen, tracking her son’s deliberate movement. Hurt flickers across her features before her expression hardens again.
“Cillian, darling,” she says, her voice recalibrating artificially lightly, “there’s no need to cause a scene.”
“I know the Cillian who exists now,” I say calmly, drawing her attention back to me. “Not the version from your photo albums or the one you’ve brought to your dinner parties. I know the man who sings off-key in the shower and works until three a.m. when he’s solving a problem. The one who sketches building designs on napkins when he thinks no one’s looking.”
Cillian’s hand presses more firmly against my back, a pulse of warmth that travels through my spine. Encouragement. Support. Pride.
“I know the man who argued with his contractor for two hours because they wanted to cut corners on affordable housing materials,” I continue. “The one who keeps a journal of ideas to make the city more livable for people who can’t afford penthouse views.”
Mary’s lips part slightly, words failing her for perhaps the first time since I’ve met her. Her gaze flicks to Cillian, searching hisface for denial, for distance, for any sign that I’m fabricating intimacy that doesn’t exist.
She finds none.
“These are just phases,” she manages finally, recovering her voice but not her composure. “Rebellions. Every man goes through them. When he’s ready to settle down properly—”
“I am settled,” Cillian interrupts. “With Star.”
Two words. Simple. Definitive. The hand at my back doesn’t move, doesn’t tremble, doesn’t retreat.
Mary’s perfect mask slips further, revealing the frightened woman beneath. Her eyes dart between us.
“You can’t possibly know what you want,” she says, addressing Cillian directly now. “Not after everything we’ve built, everything we’ve planned. The family legacy—”
“Is mine to continue as I choose,” Cillian finishes. His voice remains calm, though I feel the tension in his body through the contact at my back.
Across the table, Arthur crunches his napkin. “Mary,” he says quietly, “This isn’t the time or place.”
“When is the time, Arthur?” Mary demands, turning her frustration on her husband. “When our son has thrown away everything we’ve built for him? When he’s abandoned the path we’ve sacrificed to create?”
The fear beneath her anger is nakedly visible now—not fear of me specifically, but of change, of loss, of a future that doesn’t match the one she’s spent decades imagining.
“No one is abandoning anything,” I say, keeping my voice gentle despite the confrontation. “Cillian honors your family every day through his work, his values, his integrity. He’s here isn’t he? But he deserves to build his own life, not live the one scripted for him.”
Mary’s eyes snap back to me, narrowing with renewed focus. “And I suppose you think you’re part of that life? A temporary distraction that he’ll outgrow once the novelty wears off?”
