Chapter 6 - Family Council and False Olive Branches
On Sunday afternoon, a text came from an unfamiliar number.
*Claire, it's Dad. Please. Meet me and your mother at the Silver Spoon Diner. Just us. Andrew won't be there. We need to talk like a family before this destroys us completely.*
I showed the message to Marcus. He looked skeptical. "Your father has spent forty years staying silent while your mother ran roughshod over everyone."
"I know," I said. "Which means Mom is truly desperate if she’s making him reach out."
I agreed to meet them, but on strict conditions: public place, no screaming, and thirty minutes maximum.
When I walked into the Silver Spoon Diner at two o’clock, my parents were already seated in a back booth. My father looked older, his shoulders slouched, lines of deep fatigue etched into his forehead. My mother sat rigid, her hands clutching her designer handbag like a shield, her lips pressed into a tight, bloodless line.
"Claire," Dad said, starting to stand, but I slipped into the booth across from them before he could finish the gesture.
"Mom. Dad."
Mom cleared her throat, forcing a trembling, brittle smile that looked completely alien on her face. "Claire, darling. Look at us. We’re family. Family doesn't drag each other into courtrooms like strangers."
"You made us strangers on Saturday, Mom," I said flatly. "When you unveiled that cake."
Mom waved her hand dismissively, though her eye twitched. "Oh, that silly cake! It was just a joke, Claire! A playful little joke because Kayla is Andrew's only daughter, and Andrew is... well, you know how sensitive he is about his branch of the family. Mia knows we love her."
"Does she?" I challenged. "Because you didn't show up to her graduation. You haven't sent her a birthday card in three years. You spent ten thousand dollars on an eighth-grade promotion party in a house I own, while you didn't even send a text message when Mia was named valedictorian."
Dad flinched, looking down at his coffee cup.
Mom’s smile vanished, replaced by the familiar flash of venom. "We are your parents! We gave you life! You don't get to shake us down for four hundred and fifty thousand dollars! Where do you think we have that kind of money?"
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"Then Andrew can buy my share," I said smoothly. "He drives an eighty-thousand-dollar truck and pays private school tuition. Let your golden boy save your home."
My mother’s face drained of color.
