Luke’s gaze swept the kitchen, landing on me briefly.
“Oh. Aaron,” he said, like my name was a minor detail. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I said.
He looked at the mashed potatoes, then back at me. “Working hard as usual,” he said with a smirk.
I didn’t respond. Not because I couldn’t, but because I’d learned long ago that engaging with Luke’s little comments only fed him. He thrived on reaction.
Danielle slid into a seat at the kitchen island while my mom hovered, offering her snacks, asking about her job, her family, her plans. Luke answered half the questions for her, and she laughed at his answers as if they were charming.
I kept moving.
By the time we sat down for dinner, the table looked perfect. White tablecloth. Candles. Serving dishes arranged like a magazine spread.
My mom insisted we all hold hands for a quick prayer, something about gratitude and blessings. Luke held Danielle’s hand with one hand and reached across for my mom’s with the other. My mother squeezed his fingers like she was holding onto proof that her life had meaning.
I held my dad’s hand. His palm was dry, warm. His grip was distracted.
When we sat and started eating, the room filled with the sounds of utensils and polite conversation.
My mom talked about Luke. She always did.
“Luke’s company is so impressed with him,” she said, smiling wide. “He’s traveling all the time now. They just can’t get enough of him.”
Luke nodded modestly, the way he did when he wanted to appear humble while still soaking it in.
“It’s been busy,” he said. “But good busy.”
Danielle laughed too loudly and touched his arm.
My dad nodded, sipping his drink.
“That’s my boy,” my mom said, and the phrase landed like a stamp.
I chewed my turkey slowly, letting the flavors move across my tongue. The meat was tender. The gravy was perfect. The potatoes were creamy. I’d made them that way.
But the comfort of the food only made the emotional distance more obvious.
Conversation stayed centered on Luke. His projects. His future. His “big plans.”
When someone asked me about work, it was quick and shallow, like they were checking a box.
“How’s your job?” my mom’s friend asked.
“Fine,” I said.
“Oh good,” she said, already turning back to Luke.
That’s what I mean when I say I stayed quiet. Not because I had nothing to say, but because I learned my words didn’t stick in that room. They slid off people like water off a waxed surface.
Halfway through dinner, after the second round of compliments about Luke’s career, my mom turned her attention toward me, and for a moment I thought maybe she was going to say something kind. Maybe she’d noticed I’d been there early, working. Maybe she’d acknowledge it.
Instead, she sighed like my presence was a problem that had followed her all day.
“It must be nice,” she said, “living alone with no real responsibilities.”
It wasn’t even a question. It was a statement sharpened into an accusation.
I smiled slightly, trying to keep it light.
“Yeah,” I said, forcing a small joke. “The mortgage fairy really helps.”
I meant it as a harmless comment. A little humor to deflect. A way to keep the peace.
But my mom’s eyes narrowed.
Cold.
Sharp.
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