His mother, Diane Callahan, sat beside him like a queen claiming her throne. Pearls at her throat, red lipstick sharp as a blade, eyes constantly weighing my daughter.
I had come to dinner because Emily asked me to.
“Please, Mom,” she had whispered over the phone. “Just be calm tonight. Brent wants both families to try again.”
Try again.
The phrase tasted bitter as I watched Brent interrupt her for the sixth time.
“She forgets things,” he told the table, laughing. “Bills, appointments, basic instructions. I swear, living with Emily is like managing a teenager.”
Emily’s face flushed.
“That’s not true,” she said softly.
Brent turned his head slowly. “Excuse me?”
The silence around the table pulled tight.
Emily swallowed. “I said that’s not true. I handle the rent, the groceries, your dry cleaning, the insurance—”
Before she could finish, Brent’s hand shot out.
He seized a fistful of her hair near the back of her head and yanked.
Emily cried out, sharp and broken. Her chair scraped against the floor. Several diners turned. A waiter froze beside a nearby table, balancing a tray of plates in both hands.
Brent leaned close to her ear, still gripping her hair. “Don’t embarrass me in public.”
For one second, the entire world went perfectly still.
Then Diane clapped.
She actually clapped.
