Chapter 6 - Her Children Ate in the Living Room
Dad's hand stayed light on my shoulder as we walked back down the hall toward the kitchen. The house felt different than it had an hour before, even though nothing had moved. The warm light from the kitchen spilled out into the dark hallway and I could hear the soft clink of dishes.
Laura was at the sink when we came in. Her back was to us. She was scrubbing a pan that didn't need scrubbing, her shoulders tight under that beige shirt. The granite island had been wiped clean. The envelope wasn't there anymore. She'd moved it to the far corner by the toaster, like if she pushed it out of sight we could pretend it hadn't happened.
I stopped at the edge of the kitchen. That's when I saw them.
Her kids were in the living room. It's open plan, so you can see the couch from the island. Her daughter, maybe twelve, and her son, a little younger than me, were sitting side by side on the couch with plates balanced on their knees. Spaghetti. Steam still coming off it. They weren't watching TV. They weren't talking. They were eating fast with their heads down, trying not to look toward the kitchen.
Nobody had told them to eat in there. They just knew.
My seat at the island was still empty. It was the stool on the end, closest to the hallway. There was no plate. No fork. The other two stools had been pulled out slightly, like they'd been used earlier, and then pushed back. Dad saw it at the same second I did. I felt his hand tighten, just a little, on my shoulder.
He didn't say anything right away. He walked past me, into the kitchen, and picked up the envelope from by the toaster. He carried it back to the center of the island and set it down. Right in the middle. Tan paper against the dark granite, that dark wax seal facing up, the twine still tied. It made a soft thap.
Laura turned around. Her hands were wet. She dried them on a towel and didn't look at Dad.
"Go finish in your rooms, please," she said to the living room, her voice quiet but flat. Not angry. Careful.
Her kids didn't need to be told twice. They stood up with their plates, careful not to spill, and went down the little hall toward their rooms. Her daughter glanced at me for half a second as she passed. Eye contact, then away fast. Like she was sorry but didn't know what to do with it.
The front door was still locked. The kitchen was warm and smelled like garlic and sauce, but the warmth didn't reach the island where I was standing.
Dad pulled out the empty stool. Not for himself. He just moved it out an inch, so the gap was obvious.
"Who set the table tonight?" he asked. His voice was even.
Laura looked at the empty stool, then at the envelope, then at me.
"I did," she said.
There was a pause. The fridge hummed.
"I made enough for the kids," she said, quieter now. "I cooks for my own children because I thought that was the agreement when we blended families. That I'd handle mine and you'd handle yours. That was how we said it would work so nobody would feel... replaced."
She said it like she'd practiced it. Like it was reasonable if you said it fast enough. She wasn't looking at Dad when she said it. She was looking at the counter.
I stared at the empty spot where a plate should have been. My stomach made a noise I hoped no one heard. I'd been standing in that kitchen for twenty minutes before Dad got home, watching her serve two plates from the same pot and then telling me there wasn't enough, that I could get something myself. I was ten. I didn't know how to make spaghetti without burning it.
Dad didn't raise his voice. He slid the envelope an inch closer to her, still sealed.
"The agreement was to be a family," he said. "Not two families under one roof."
Laura's mouth pressed together. She folded the towel, unfolded it.
"It's not that I don't care about Ethan," she said. Her voice cracked a little. "It's just... it's easier if the lines are clear."
Dad nodded once, slow. "It's clear now," he said. He looked toward the hallway where her kids had gone, then back at my empty stool. "Two tables. Two dinners. That's what clear looks like."
No one moved to open the envelope. It sat there between us on the granite, still tied, still sealed. The seal caught the light over the island. Laura stared at it, and I could see she wanted to ask again where it came from, what was inside, but she didn't.
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I stood by my empty seat and didn't sit down. If I sat, it would mean I was okay with waiting to be invited. If I stayed standing, it meant I was waiting for someone to fix it.
The kitchen stayed split in two, and the food got cold in the living room.
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