“Remember,” Mark said, gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly. “Just… let’s try to get through dinner without any debates, okay?”
He wasn’t talking to the kids. He was talking to me. Robert had a way of baiting people, finding their insecurities and pressing on them until they snapped.
Dinner began at 6:00 PM sharp. The china was bone white, the silverware was heavy silver, and the atmosphere was glacial. Robert sat at the head of the table, carving the turkey with surgical precision. My mother-in-law, Evelyn, sat to his right. She looked smaller than I remembered. Her hands trembled slightly as she lifted her wine glass, her eyes fixed on the tablecloth.
“So,” Robert said, not looking up. “Mark tells me you’re still working at that… agency, Sarah?”
He got my name wrong on purpose. My name is Clara. He knew that. It was a power move, a small pinprick designed to test my reaction.
“It’s Clara, Dad,” Mark said softly.
