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“When is the time?” My voice is a fragile thread, unraveling everything I feel. “Between board meetings? Or should I schedule an appointment with your secretary?”
“You’re being hysterical.”
“My mother killed herself in this house. She—” My chest heaves. My vision blurs. “And you’re worried about my attitude?”
“Calm down,” Dad commands. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”
Thomas appears with the main course, freezes at the tension, then quietly retreats.
“Perhaps we should take a moment,” Mykel speaks up, “and I’m not doing this sober.”
“You’re not an alcoholic,” Dad says.
“Alcohol wouldn’t help either way,” I say, meeting Mykel’s concerned gaze. “Nothing helps when he”—I wave my hand at Dad—”pretends everything’s fine. Like she didn’t?—”
“That’s enough.” Dad’s voice carries that familiar edge of authority. “We’re not discussing this at dinner.”
“When then?” Anne asks. “When do we discuss anything real in this family? Naomi’s right. We sit here, pretending everything’s normal. Like we didn’t lose two mothers in this house.”
Dad’s knuckles whiten around his wine glass. “I said enough.”
“You always say enough.” The words spill out of me. “When it’s uncomfortable or messy or real. But guess what? It doesn’t make it go away. She killed herself right there.” I point toward the living room. “And you haven’t even asked why.”
“Because I know.” His voice cuts through the air. “She was unstable. Just like you’re proving yourself to be.”
“That’s a lie,” I spit the words out. “And you know it, too.”
My father’s voice drops low, dangerous. “What exactly are you implying?” It has that edge I remember from childhood, the one that used to make us all freeze. But there’s something different now. That familiar muscle in his jaw ticks faster than I’ve ever seen it, and his perfectly pressed suit seems to suffocate him.
“Are you going to tell Anne the truth, or should I?”
My father’s face drains of color. “You won’t.”
“I was there.” I whip my head toward my sister, curling my hands into fists. “In the garage. The night Clara and Harry died. The night you almost?—”
“Enough!” The glass of my father lands so hard on the table that the family portrait behind me rattles. “The soup is getting cold.”
Mykel reaches for Dad’s shoulder. “Dad, this?—”
“Stay out of this,” He snaps at him.
I’ve never seen him that angry at Mykel. However, that anger is probably more directed at me, and Mykel is just the one getting in the way.
I meet my father’s eyes, challenging, daring him to stop me.
His jaw works. “Naomi, if you say another word?—”
“Mom killed your mother.”
The words hang, razor-sharp and irreversible.
No one speaks.
A silence so thick it feels like drowning.
My father glares at me, nothing new. Anne doesn’t move, Landon’s brows knit together in something unreadable, Mykel plays with his soup, and Brandon looks up at me, concerned.
I force myself to continue. “She sabotaged the car that night. I was there, hiding in the garage, playing with Mykel. I saw her do it.” The words tumble out, unstoppable now—just like the cinnamon buns at the funeral. The only difference is that back then, it was food. Now, it’s my truth. “I was eight. Eight years old, and I watched Mom tamper with the brakes. At first, I didn’t understand, but then—I said nothing. For twenty-one years, I said nothing. Because she was my mom, and I loved her, and I was so fucking scared. She killed herself because she couldn’t bear it anymore.”
“You’re being hysterical.”
“My mother killed herself in this house. She—” My chest heaves. My vision blurs. “And you’re worried about my attitude?”
“Calm down,” Dad commands. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”
Thomas appears with the main course, freezes at the tension, then quietly retreats.
“Perhaps we should take a moment,” Mykel speaks up, “and I’m not doing this sober.”
“You’re not an alcoholic,” Dad says.
“Alcohol wouldn’t help either way,” I say, meeting Mykel’s concerned gaze. “Nothing helps when he”—I wave my hand at Dad—”pretends everything’s fine. Like she didn’t?—”
“That’s enough.” Dad’s voice carries that familiar edge of authority. “We’re not discussing this at dinner.”
“When then?” Anne asks. “When do we discuss anything real in this family? Naomi’s right. We sit here, pretending everything’s normal. Like we didn’t lose two mothers in this house.”
Dad’s knuckles whiten around his wine glass. “I said enough.”
“You always say enough.” The words spill out of me. “When it’s uncomfortable or messy or real. But guess what? It doesn’t make it go away. She killed herself right there.” I point toward the living room. “And you haven’t even asked why.”
“Because I know.” His voice cuts through the air. “She was unstable. Just like you’re proving yourself to be.”
“That’s a lie,” I spit the words out. “And you know it, too.”
My father’s voice drops low, dangerous. “What exactly are you implying?” It has that edge I remember from childhood, the one that used to make us all freeze. But there’s something different now. That familiar muscle in his jaw ticks faster than I’ve ever seen it, and his perfectly pressed suit seems to suffocate him.
“Are you going to tell Anne the truth, or should I?”
My father’s face drains of color. “You won’t.”
“I was there.” I whip my head toward my sister, curling my hands into fists. “In the garage. The night Clara and Harry died. The night you almost?—”
“Enough!” The glass of my father lands so hard on the table that the family portrait behind me rattles. “The soup is getting cold.”
Mykel reaches for Dad’s shoulder. “Dad, this?—”
“Stay out of this,” He snaps at him.
I’ve never seen him that angry at Mykel. However, that anger is probably more directed at me, and Mykel is just the one getting in the way.
I meet my father’s eyes, challenging, daring him to stop me.
His jaw works. “Naomi, if you say another word?—”
“Mom killed your mother.”
The words hang, razor-sharp and irreversible.
No one speaks.
A silence so thick it feels like drowning.
My father glares at me, nothing new. Anne doesn’t move, Landon’s brows knit together in something unreadable, Mykel plays with his soup, and Brandon looks up at me, concerned.
I force myself to continue. “She sabotaged the car that night. I was there, hiding in the garage, playing with Mykel. I saw her do it.” The words tumble out, unstoppable now—just like the cinnamon buns at the funeral. The only difference is that back then, it was food. Now, it’s my truth. “I was eight. Eight years old, and I watched Mom tamper with the brakes. At first, I didn’t understand, but then—I said nothing. For twenty-one years, I said nothing. Because she was my mom, and I loved her, and I was so fucking scared. She killed herself because she couldn’t bear it anymore.”
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