“We’re just finishing up dinner,” he adds, tone matter-of-fact. “You’re welcome to join us.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
He leads me into the dining room.
My mother is there, sitting at the formal table set with candles and china. Her eyes widen when she sees me, surprised but happy.
Then, instantly, they narrow with concern when she catches what my father didn’t—the swollen evidence of tears, the heaviness in my face.
She rises, crosses the room, and folds me into her arms without hesitation.
“Sweetheart,” she whispers, holding me a second too long. When she lets go, her voice steadies into something brighter. “Sit, sit. I’ll get you a plate.”
She moves toward the kitchen, already pulling a fresh plate and silverware from the sideboard, while I sink into one of the side chairs.
My father sits back down at the head of the table as if nothing has shifted, knife in hand, cutting into his roast.
“So,” he says, without looking up. “You’re home now? Done with that nonsense in Grand River?”
The words land like a stone, but I don’t answer right away. I wait until my mother returns, sets the plate in front of me, her hand brushing mine in quiet reassurance.
“Thank you,” I murmur to her.
Then I lift my eyes to him, calm and steady.
“Grand River is my home, Daddy. I only came by to let you know that Chase and I signed the papers today. Our marriage has ended and the house will be on the market next week.”
The scrape of his knife against porcelain is sharp enough to make my teeth ache.
He finally looks up, his face hard.
“You’re divorcing your husband.”
The disdain in his voice is sharp. “Ten years of marriage, and you just throw it away. All the prayers, all the work we put into that marriage—wasted. You’re a selfish girl, Tori. You never learned how to endure. Marriage is hard, but you don’t just?—”
“I’m sorry, you must be confused.” My fork touches down against the plate with a quiet click. My voice is calm, deliberate. “I didn’t come here to have a conversation or to obtain your approval for my life choices. I’m here, as a courtesy, to inform you about an adult life decision my now ex-husband and I have made. Whether or not you agree with that decision is not my concern.”
Then I pick up my fork again and start to eat, slow and unhurried, as if the world isn’t cracking in two between us.
My mother watches me, torn between pride and fear, but she doesn’t speak.
My father’s face flushes red. He chews like the food is an offense, rage thickening in his jaw.
Finally, he slams his palm against the table. The silverware rattles.
“Get out. Get out of my house.”
“Richard,” my mom pleads, voice sharp with warning.
I set my fork down again, slower this time. Blot my mouth with the napkin in my lap, fold it neatly, and push back from the table.
I lean over and press a kiss to Mom’s cheek.
“Thanks for dinner, Mom.”
Before I can take another step, his voice whips across the room. “I said leave!”
“Richard!” she cries, sharp and desperate.
