“Is that a wrinkle on your shirt?” she asks, studying me with the same displeased air she studied the flowers.
Father emerges from his study.
“Ryan Rutherford is known for his unwrinkled shirts,” he says.
“Maybe it will be engraved on his headstone,” I mutter.
Mother tuts.
“Must you be so morbid?”
I follow them to the dining room and take my seat across from Penelope and Daniel.
Mother looks unhappy. “First I encountered a wilted petal, and now I have
to endure napkins that are unprofessionally folded.” She shakes her head. “What have I done to deserve this?”
“No one cares about the napkins, Marjorie,” Father says, and I watch my mother shrink.
My father is a tyrant. The kind of man who loves to force life to its knees and shove cruelty down its throat.
I was seven when he hit me for the first time.
I remember it vividly—the sound, the shock, the way my world split open. I didn’t cry because I knew it would make him worse.
The reason for his anger?
The diploma I got from my teacher for being kind, helpful, and always willing to share my lunch.
“You don’t go to school to be kind,” Father snarled when I held my stinging cheek. “You go there to become exceptional. Like your sister.”
The next time he hit me was after our team lost a football game.
“We are Stones! Stones don’t bend. Stones break others. Do you
understand?”
His calculating gaze settles on me across the table.
“Ryan’s permanently back from Dubai.”
“I heard the branch office is a success,” Mother adds. “He did an excellent job.”
Father nods. “I don’t think I’ve ever known a more promising young man.”
“Promising. Very promising,” Mother echoes.
I try not to show how their words land. How easily they find the old bruises
to squeeze and probe.
Penelope swirls her wine, looking thoughtful.
“Is it true you switched your major?”
“To restorative justice, yes,” I reply, bracing myself for the inevitable serving of scorn.
Mother gasps. “That sounds like terrorism. Are you sure it’s a legal subject?”
