Page 42 of Sins of Arrogance

Hope stiff­ens be­side me and my heart squeezes for her. Fall­ing for my dad is not a good propo­si­tion. Even if he re­turns her feel­ings, he’s not go­ing to be con­sid­er­ate of them.

The mob al­ways comes first.

No ex­cep­tions. I should know.

Dier­dre looks around the ta­ble, her lips twist­ing in dis­ap­point­ment when she re­al­izes she can’t sit be­side Mick.

He’s to my left and Fitz is once again in the over­sized chair with mamo at the end of the ta­ble near him. Hope’s son is across the ta­ble, in the chair clos­est to Fitzy.

Their obliv­i­ous chat­ter brings a smile to my face de­spite the tight­ness in my shoul­ders.

Hope’s daugh­ter Es­ther is seated across from me. Since no ad­di­tional chair was added, be­cause with my sis­ter and Zoe’s ab­sence it wasn’t needed, that leaves the only two empty chairs across the ta­ble and op­po­site the end where Mick’s sit­ting.

Dier­dre smiles co­quet­tishly at my dad as she sits down. “Thank you, Bro­gan. You’re so sweet.”

I sip my wa­ter and breathe through my nose.

One sec­ond.

Two.

And then I smile.

Be­cause I have never in my life wanted to stab any­one with a salad fork more than I do in this mo­ment – and this fam­ily be­lieves in ta­ble man­ners.

Her eyes point­edly mov­ing right past me, Dier­dre smiles at Fitz, the way some adults do.

With con­de­scen­sion. “Aren’t you lucky to be the spit­ting im­age of your da.”

Fitz eye­brows draw to­gether in a scowl. “I look like my mommy too. Ev­ery­body with eyes says so.”

“Fitzger­ald Shaugh­nessy,” my dad barks. “Apol­o­gize right now.”

Fitz presses his lips to­gether and lifts his chin mul­ishly. No apolo­gies com­ing from that quar­ter ei­ther.

“He’s only speak­ing the truth, son,” mamo chides. “Fitz has his fa­ther’s red hair and green eyes, but the shape of them, his mouth and cheek­bones are all Shaugh­nessy.”

For once, my fa­ther doesn’t have a ready come­back. The fact Fitz re­sem­bles my side of the fam­ily is a great source of pride to him. To deny it now would be to deny that pride. He’s not go­ing to do that, not even for our forked-tongued house­guest.

“Oh, I can def­i­nitely see you in your grand­son,” Dier­dre gushes, by­pass­ing my do­na­tion to the gene pool com­pletely.

“I think Fitz is a very lucky boy to look like both of his par­ents,” Hope says, putting her­self firmly on my side and sur­pris­ing ev­ery­one at the ta­ble.

I mean. I know she’s got in­ner strength be­cause she’s the one that risked her own life to warn my cousin about the AOG’s plans to “bring her back to the fold”.

But since she ar­rived, she’s been quiet. Un­likely to join most con­ver­sa­tions much less cast a ver­bal vote that might be taken as sid­ing against my fa­ther.

The look on his face is even more sur­pris­ing than Hope’s words.

In­stead of an­gry, my dad looks stunned and then pleased. Proud even.

Be­cause Hope spoke up?

If that’s the case, I’m go­ing to bring him a delir­ium of joy go­ing for­ward. Be­cause I’m done con­form­ing.

I did ev­ery­thing right, sub­mit­ted to emo­tion­ally dev­ast­ing con­di­tions re­gard­ing hav­ing a male heir, stood be­side my fa­ther and hus­band in all ways. And what did it get me?

A mar­riage that is an emo­tional waste­land and a fa­ther who shows no pride in me, only ex­pec­ta­tion. He has no idea that he should even con­sider putting me, or Fiona, first some­times.