CHAPTER 5 – CASPIAN
The gravel crunches under my shoes as I walk up the path to my family home.
At the door, I pause with my hand hovering over the cold brass handle.
The idea of opening the door repulses me.
I startle when the door yanks open and my sister appears.
“Are you waiting for a written invitation?” Penelope asks, sharp and immaculate in her linen dress.
A decade older than me, my sister moved away when I was nine.
I grew up idolizing her, yet she never seemed to remember my existence.
“Nice to see you too, Penelope,” I say, but she’s already turning away.
“Daniel, don’t hover,” she snaps at her husband. “You’re blocking the doorway.”
Daniel smiles apologetically and moves aside. He’s the Regional Big Head of Global Pretentious Bullshit—or something to that effect.
I take a deep breath and step inside. One hour. Two max. I’ll manage.
Mother inspects a flower arrangement in the hall, her lips pursed.
I go kiss her cheek.
“Is that a wrinkle on your shirt?” she asks, studying me with the same displeased air she studied the flowers.
Father emerges from his study.
“Ryan Rutherford is known for his unwrinkled shirts,” he says.
“Maybe it will be engraved on his headstone,” I mutter.
Mother tuts.
“Must you be so morbid?”
I follow them to the dining room and take my seat across from Penelope and Daniel.
Mother looks unhappy. “First I encountered a wilted petal, and now I have
to endure napkins that are unprofessionally folded.” She shakes her head. “What have I done to deserve this?”
“No one cares about the napkins, Marjorie,” Father says, and I watch my mother shrink.
My father is a tyrant. The kind of man who loves to force life to its knees and shove cruelty down its throat.
I was seven when he hit me for the first time.
I remember it vividly—the sound, the shock, the way my world split open. I didn’t cry because I knew it would make him worse.
The reason for his anger?
The diploma I got from my teacher for being kind, helpful, and always willing to share my lunch.
“You don’t go to school to be kind,” Father snarled when I held my stinging cheek. “You go there to become exceptional. Like your sister.”
The next time he hit me was after our team lost a football game.
“We are Stones! Stones don’t bend. Stones break others. Do you
understand?”
His calculating gaze settles on me across the table.
“Ryan’s permanently back from Dubai.”
“I heard the branch office is a success,” Mother adds. “He did an excellent job.”
Father nods. “I don’t think I’ve ever known a more promising young man.”
“Promising. Very promising,” Mother echoes.
I try not to show how their words land. How easily they find the old bruises
to squeeze and probe.
Penelope swirls her wine, looking thoughtful.
“Is it true you switched your major?”
“To restorative justice, yes,” I reply, bracing myself for the inevitable serving of scorn.
Mother gasps. “That sounds like terrorism. Are you sure it’s a legal subject?”
“Don’t worry, Mother,” Penelope says. “In restorative justice, criminals sit in circles and sing ‘Kumbaya’.”
I grit my teeth.
“It’s about accountability. About repairing damage and taking responsibility for your actions.”
Daniel snorts.
“Didn’t know you could major in cuddling.”
“It takes guts to face the person you harmed,” I tell him. “Or the person who harmed you.”
Father’s knife screeches across porcelain, setting my teeth on edge.
“I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous. What a waste of time and money.”
“I disagree.”
Father scoffs, fists clenching.
“While you’re holding hands with lawbreakers, Ryan is closing deals for his father.”
“Robert must be so proud of his son,” Mother sighs.
I focus on my roast, though I never have an appetite at this table.
“I’m doing more pro bono work this fall,” Penelope announces.
I smile at my sister.
“I’m glad. That’s important.”
“Don’t get sentimental,” she replies flatly. “It’s for my brand.”
I study her, trying to catch even a flicker of empathy. A sign that would show me there’s a human being underneath all that excellence.
“You’re still helping people,” I say quietly.
She ignores me.
“I’m also supervising four residents. I wouldn’t take a single one if it were up to me, but you don’t become department chair without meeting your residency quota.”
Dessert arrives.
Mother leans forward before my spoon even touches the panna cotta.
“Laura Abernathy is looking for a husband.”
I don’t reply. It’s better that way.
Mother’s mouth turns downward.
“Are you still insisting you like men?”
A slap in the face. That’s how it feels, the maternal love provided by Marjorie Stone.
“I’m still being myself,” I finally say, my voice surer than how I feel. Let’s face it—I’ve never been myself around these people.
We finish the dessert in silence.
My every movement is rehearsed. Sit straight. Don’t react. Don’t break.
I imagine standing up and walking out. Leaving, and never coming back.
But if I do that, where will I belong then?
Sipping my coffee, I swallow their contempt and picture a different table.
A table with noise, warmth, and acceptance.
A table where kindness isn’t punished and my name is not an insult.
One day, I’ll sit at that table.