Chapter 3 - The Sunday Luncheon
Two days later, Sunday rolled around with its usual, hollow routine. Every second Sunday, Richard, his wife Evelyn, and Tyler would come to the mansion for luncheon. They called it "checking in on Mom," but in reality, it was an inventory check.
Mrs. Gable, my housekeeper, had laid out a roast chicken with rosemary potatoes in the formal dining room. I sat at the head of the table, dressed in a simple navy cardigan, watching my family chew through my hospitality.
"Mother," Richard began, cutting into his chicken with aggressive efficiency, "I took the liberty of having an architect friend glance at the south wing blueprints. You know that damp smell in the library? He thinks we should knock down the load-bearing archway between the study and the conservatory. It would create a modern open-concept floor plan."
I paused with my fork halfway to my mouth. "Why would I knock down Thomas’s hand-carved archway? He spent four months finishing the oak with oil."
"Well, not right now, obviously," Evelyn chimed in with her tight, practiced smile. She wore three heavy gold bangles that clinked against her plate like tiny cash registers. "We're just thinking ahead, Eleanor. Modern buyers—or modern families—don't want all those dark, gloomy hallways. We need light. Open spaces. Tyler agrees, don't you, sweetie?"
Tyler was slouching in his chair, his eyes glued to his phone screen as his thumbs flicked frantically across the glass. "Yeah, totally. If we knock out that wall, I can fit a full VR gaming rig and a podcast soundstage right by the garden windows. It’d look sick on camera."
I laid my fork down against the porcelain plate. The metallic clink sounded louder than it should have. "Tyler, does your phone provide you with sustenance, or are you capable of participating in a conversation with your grandmother?"
Tyler rolled his eyes, shoving the phone into his pocket with an exaggerated sigh. "Come on, Gran, I’m running a business here. That video from your birthday hit two million views on TikTok yesterday. You’re practically a meme."
"A meme," I repeated, feeling the chill settle deep in my bones. "You threw a smoke grenade into my birthday cake, humiliated me in front of seventy lifelong friends, ruined my dress, and gave me an asthma attack. And you call that your business?"
"It was a joke, Mom," Richard sighed, waving his hand dismissively. "The boy is building an audience. You know how social media works nowadays. That kind of exposure translates into brand sponsorships. Besides, nobody got hurt."
"I was hurt," I said quietly.
Richard chuckled, reaching across to pat my wrist in a way that felt entirely patronizing. "You’re tough, Eleanor. Dad always said you were made of iron. Don't be so dramatic over a little sugar and smoke. By the way, speaking of expenses, Tyler's tuition for the fall semester is coming up. The bursar sent a reminder to my email. I figured you’d want to wire it directly like you usually do."
May you like
I looked at Richard’s manicured nails, then at Evelyn’s expectant eyes, and finally at Tyler, who had already slipped his phone back under the edge of the table.
"I will review the tuition statement," I said evenly. "Pass the potatoes, Richard."
