“I'm not self-conscious,” I said, turning back.
“Good,” my mom said smoothly, like she hadn't just been stage-whispering about me eighteen inches from the microphone. “Now. Your father was going to tell you about the dinner party.”
“The dinner party.” My dad's entire face lit up. “Ro, I need you to understand something. We have hosted many dinner parties. Forty years of dinner parties, more or less.”
“We've been married thirty-five years, Martin.”
“I was entertaining before we were married. The point is — this was the worst dinner party in recorded history, and I say that having once attended a function where the caterer showed up drunk and served the soup cold.”
“The soup story is a separate story,” my mom said.
“The soup story is important context.”
“Tell me about the peacock,” I said, because I could see where this was going and I wanted to get there.
My dad sat forward. “Gary Hendricks — you remember Gary, he's got the boat he never uses and the laugh that sounds like a screen door — Gary shows up at the front door with a bird.”
“An emotional support peacock,” I said.
“I didn't know it was an emotional support peacock at the time. At the time it was just a bird Gary had brought to my dinner party. I assumed there was an explanation. I let them in.”
“You let a peacock into the house,” my mom said, in the tone of a woman still processing this.
“I let Gary in. The peacock made its own decision to enter.”
“It walked in under your arm, Martin.”
“It was a confident bird. I respected that.” My dad held up one hand. “Now. Your mother had spent the better part of two days on the table centerpiece. Flowers, candles, the whole production. It was very nice.”
“It was beautiful,” my mom said flatly.
“It was beautiful,” he agreed. “The peacock disagreed.”
“Oh no,” I said.
“Within four minutes of entry, the bird had identified the centerpiece as a personal insult and took action accordingly.” My dad made a sweeping gesture with both hands. “Flowers everywhere. One candle went sideways. Judith Mercer from next door stood up so fast she knocked her chair back into the server.”
“We don't have a server,” my mom said. “That was Patrick from next door who came early to help with the wine.”
“Patrick was operating in a server-adjacent capacity. The point is he went down. Bird's still going. The peacock had a look in its eye, Rowan. Personal. Like the centerpiece had said something to it.”
“It was attracted to the?—”
“I know what it was attracted to, Martha, I was there.”
“Then say the right thing.”
“I'm telling the story.”
“You're telling a version of the story that makes the peacock seem like it had a grudge.”
“It absolutely had a grudge.” My dad looked back at the camera with total conviction. “Some animals just decide. That bird decided. It saw that centerpiece and it saidnot todayand it meant it.”
I was leaning against my kitchen counter with my arms crossed and my chest fully loose for the first time in days, watching the two of them argue over the structural accuracy of a peacock incident, and I couldn't have explained why it helped as much as it did. They bickered like it was a sport they'd been playing so long they'd forgotten they were playing it. Every correction my mom made, every embellishment my dad doubled down on, every sighingMartinand every unapologeticI'm just saying— it was the most familiar noise in the world, and it filled the kitchen up in a way that pushed the quiet back to the edges where it belonged.
“Did it ever leave?” I asked.
“Gary took it home eventually. Eventually.” My dad settled back with the satisfaction of a man who'd delivered his material well. “Two days later I found a tail feather behind the credenza. No explanation. Just evidence.”
