Suddenly, the family that had spent two hours preaching unity became a courtroom of defendants. Everyone argued over their portion. No one remembered ordering anything. Everyone blamed someone else.
“I only had salad.”
“You ate lobster.”
“I shared it.”
“You drank from the wine.”
“Ryan ordered it!”
“Dad picked the restaurant!”
“Claire should still pay something. She came!”
I picked up my purse.
My mother grabbed my wrist.
Her fingers were cold.
“Don’t leave,” she whispered.
I looked down at her hand until she let go.
“Why?” I asked. “Because you love me? Or because you need another card?”
Her face collapsed.
“You’ve become cruel.”
“No,” I said. “I became unavailable.”
I stepped away from the table.
My father rose so quickly his chair almost toppled.
“If you walk out now, don’t ever come back.”
The old threat.
The family guillotine.
