Chapter 3
The family room resembles a Christmas card brought to life.
The fireplace cracks, stockings hang straight, and a tree stands so wonderfully adorned it could have been crafted by elves with engineering degrees.
I stand in the doorway, still wearing my red dress, watching Mary arrange crystal glasses on a silver tray as if setting up chess pieces for a match I’ve already lost.
Cillian’s hand presses against the small of my back, guiding me into the room. His touch feels different here. A public gesture. I miss the way his fingers absently trace patterns on my skin when we’re alone in our apartment, unobserved and authentic.
“There you are,” Mary says, not lifting her eyes from her arrangement. “I was beginning to think you’d gotten lost. Though I suppose the east wing can be confusing for those not used to such big spaces.”
The jab is a reminder that I don’t know this house, don’t belong in its geography of familial memory. Bea wouldn’t get lost. She knows which floorboards creak and which doorknobs stick.
“Just freshening up, Mother,” Cillian responds, his voice carrying the same careful neutrality I’ve heard since we arrived. “The drive was longer than expected.”
Arthur Brown sits in a leather wingback chair that seems molded to him through years of identical posture.
He looks up from his book—something leather-bound and likely a first edition—and offers a nod that might be interpreted as welcoming if you squinted.
His resemblance to Cillian is striking. They have the same jawline, same height, same careful reserve.
But while Cillian’s eyes hold warmth, Arthur’s reveal only measured observation, like he’s watching a mildly interesting documentary on family dynamics.
“Star,” he acknowledges, closing his book with a soft thump. “Welcome to our home.”
The words are correct but empty of genuine welcome. Not hostile, but detached.
“Thank you, Mr. Brown,” I reply. “You have a beautiful home.”
“Arthur, please,” he says automatically, the same correction Mary offered earlier. The Browns are so “informal” yet wrapped in layers of formality so dense you could suffocate in them.
“Drinks before dinner,” Mary announces, lifting a crystal decanter. “Arthur, your scotch. Cillian, the usual?”
“Just water for now, thank you,” Cillian replies, another small rebellion that doesn’t go unnoticed. Mary’s smile tightens at the corners as she sets down the decanter with a sharp clink against the glass-topped side table.
“And for Star?” she asks, directing the question at Cillian rather than me.
“I’d love some wine, if you have it,” I answer before Cillian can, reclaiming my voice. “Red, if possible.”
Mary’s gaze finally lands on me, assessing. “We have a lovely Bordeaux breathing for dinner. Perhaps you’d prefer a white for now? Less likely to stain.”
“Red is fine,” I insist softly. “I never spill.”
A lie. I’m clumsy at the best of times, downright catastrophic when nervous. But something in me refuses to yield even this small point.
Bea emerges from a side door I hadn’t noticed, already holding a glass of white wine.
Her blonde hair falls in one swoop, framing a face that’s pretty in an unthreatening way.
She’s changed since our arrival, now wearing tailored black pants with her emerald sweater.
The outfit is festive yet elegant. Exactly what I should have worn to blend in rather than stand out.
“I set the table as you asked, Mary,” Bea says, her voice soft but clear. “The gold chargers with the winter berry centerpiece.”
“You always had such an eye for these things.”
The exchange is for my benefit. A demonstration of what integration into the Brown legacy looks like: anticipating needs, speaking the right language, wearing the right colors. I’m getting it now.
Cillian guides me to the sofa, his body angled toward mine—another small act of allegiance that Mary catalogs with narrowed eyes. Bea sits across from us, her posture straight but her fingers restless, tracing the rim of her wine glass in continuous, nervous circles.
“Before dinner,” Mary announces, moving toward the Christmas tree, “I thought we might continue our little tradition.”
From beneath the tree, she retrieves four identically wrapped gift boxes. Each one is precisely the same size, wrapped in cream-colored paper with gold ribbons tied in symmetrical bows. It is obsessive. Not a corner out of place, not a ribbon askew.
“Arthur,” she says, handing him the first box ceremonially. “As head of the clan.”
My eyes shift to Cillian, whose jaw tightens imperceptibly. This ritual clearly disturbs him, though he keeps his composure.
Arthur accepts the box with a resigned nod, methodically untying the ribbon instead of tearing the paper. His care seems less about preserving the wrapping and more about delaying the inevitable. He lifts the lid, revealing a thick, hunter green cable-knit sweater.
“Lovely as always, Mary,” he murmurs, setting aside the box and pulling the sweater over his button-down shirt, neither enthusiastic nor complaining. The action feels rehearsed. A husband adhering to traditions established decades ago.
“The cashmere is from that wonderful little shop in Edinburgh,” Mary explains, though no one asked. “I had them add a touch more wool this year. The nights have been so chilly.”
She turns, box in hand, and approaches Bea next. “Yours is a slightly different pattern this year, though I remember how you admired the cable design last time.”
Last time. When Cillian and Bea were married. When Bea was still part of family gatherings. The realization settles cold in my stomach. They’re divorced but now she’s here.
His ex accepts the box, her fingers trembling slightly. She glances at me—briefly, apologetically—before unwrapping her gift with the same care Arthur demonstrated. Inside lies a sweater identical in color but with a more delicate knit pattern.
She hesitates, the sweater half-lifted from its nest of tissue paper.
“Go on, dear,” Mary urges, her voice honey-coated yet sharp. “Try it on. I want to make sure the fit is right.”
The command is clear beneath the suggestion. The former Mrs. Brown quickly pulls the sweater over her head, careful not to disturb her hair. When she emerges, smoothing the fabric over her torso, she looks like she belongs on the Brown family Christmas card.
“Perfect,” Mary declares, satisfaction radiating from her like heat. She steps back, admiring the visual effect of Arthur and Bea in matching green. The beginning of her living tableau.
My fingers cramp in tension as Mary turns to retrieve the next box.
The family tradition comes into focus now—matching sweaters, a visual declaration of unity and belonging.
Of family. And I’m sitting here in vibrant, defiant red, marking myself as an outsider.
I want to ask Cillian if she did it on purpose, but I already suspect the answer.
“Cillian,” Mary says, approaching her son with the third identical box. Her voice softens as she extends it to him. “Your father had to talk me out of the reindeer pattern this year.”
It’s meant as a joke, but no one laughs. Cillian accepts the box with a tight smile. “I’ll open it later.”
“Pish-posh, besides, Star’s gift is next. You’re holding up the line.”
Apparently appeased that I’m next, he reluctantly agrees.
His fingers work methodically at the wrapping, neither rushing nor lingering. When he lifts the lid, there’s no surprise—just another green sweater, slightly larger but otherwise identical to his father’s.
The room grows quiet. Everyone watches as Cillian examines the sweater, running his thumb along the sleeve. I can feel the weight of expectation pressing down, the unspoken command to conform, to complete the picture.
Cillian carefully refolds the sweater and places it back in its box. Then, with deliberate care, he sets the box on the side table and makes no move to put it on.
“Thank you, but I’ll stay in my shirt,” he says.
The temperature in the room drops despite the crackling fire. Mary’s polished smile falters, her fingers tightening around her own sweater box until her knuckles protrude. Rejecting the sweater is a rejection of her authority.
“But,” she presses, her voice rising slightly in pitch, “it’s tradition.”
The word ‘tradition’ carries weight—a bludgeon disguised as nostalgia. Mary’s composure begins to crack, fine lines appearing in her facade like a porcelain cup under too much pressure.
“I know,” my boyfriend acknowledges, his voice gentler. “But I’m comfortable as I am.”
He moves closer to me on the sofa, his hand finding the small of my back again. The gesture is unmistakable—he’s choosing me, choosing us, over Mary’s choreographed family portrait.
Mary stands frozen, the remaining two boxes clutched against her emerald silk blouse.
Her eyes dart between Cillian and me, calculation and hurt battling across features too disciplined to fully reveal either.
Arthur watches the exchange with measured interest, making no move to intervene.
Meanwhile, Bea fidgets with her sweater sleeve, clearly uncomfortable in her forced uniformity.
“Well,” Mary finally says, setting down her own sweater box with a controlled movement that betrays her agitation, “I suppose some of us prefer to stand out.”
I expect Mary to give me the last remaining box, but instead she turns away, moving toward a small side table where a generic gold gift bag sits. It’s clearly an afterthought, and not part of the main event. She lifts it with two fingers, as though handling something distasteful.
“Star,” she says, approaching me with cold eyes and an even colder smile. There’s definitely no sweater in there. “I wasn’t certain about sizes, so I thought these might be more appropriate.”
She extends the bag toward me while clutching the last box with her other arm. Mine–the bag–is lightweight, the tissue paper inside hastily arranged. No wrapping, no bow. Just a last-minute placeholder for a daughter-in-law candidate Mary never intended to acknowledge.
I accept it with steady hands despite my racing heart. Inside, nestled in crumpled tissue, is a box of department store chocolates. Nothing like the handmade ones I’d brought. These are the kind grabbed at the checkout of a grocery store. Generic. Impersonal.
“Thank you,” I say, meeting her gaze.
“I thought the box was for her,” Cillian says, darting his eyes to the last wrapped box in Mary’s hands. The one that so far has held matching sweaters.
“Oh no, this is for me!” Mary exclaims.
A present for herself. How selfless, I think sarcastically.
My voice doesn’t waver. Years of gallery rejections and artistic criticism have fortified me against attempts more sophisticated than this transparent slight to diminish my worth.
Mary’s smile tightens. “I wasn’t sure what you might like.”
The lie hangs between us. She didn’t try to know what I might like, didn’t ask Cillian, didn’t consider me worthy of the same careful selection process used for the precise shade of the family sweaters.
“Chocolate is always welcome,” I reply, setting the bag aside with the same care Cillian showed his unworn sweater—a small rebellion, a quiet dignity. Cillian glares at his mother before squeezing my knee.
Across the room, Arthur says, “Perhaps we should open the Bordeaux now, rather than wait for dinner.”
It’s the first time he’s initiated rather than responded, and his mild intervention seems to surprise Mary. She turns to him, momentarily thrown off. “It needs to breathe properly.”
“I think we could all use a proper drink,” he replies, his tone mild but firm. “Star might enjoy tasting it now, given her preference for red.”
The unexpected alliance—however small—catches me off guard. Arthur hasn’t exactly warmed to me, but I appreciate him trying. Mary hesitates, then nods stiffly.
“As you wish,” she concedes, turning to the drinks cabinet.
Cillian’s fingers press gently against my back in a small gesture of support and pride. I lean into his touch, drawing strength from the connection. Across from us, Bea watches with an expression I can’t quite read.
The lines are clearly drawn now across the room’s warm glow—Mary and her emerald-clad allies on one side, Cillian and I on the other. Arthur stands somewhere in the middle, no longer silently enabling his wife’s machinations.
I take a deep breath, centering myself. This is just the opening salvo in what promises to be a three-day war of attrition. Mary has decades of experience in manipulation and control; I have only my love for Cillian and the stubborn streak that’s carried me through years of artistic rejection.
But as I watch Mary’s hands tremble slightly while pouring the wine, I realize something important: she’s afraid. Beneath the glamor makeup and practiced smiles, Mary Brown is terrified of losing her son, of change, of the unknown I represent.
And fear makes people predictable.
I accept the wine glass she extends with cool efficiency, our fingers not quite touching. “Thank you, Mary.”
Her eyes narrow at my use of her first name. A boundary tested.
I raise my glass slightly, a toast to the weekend ahead. The battle has begun, the first moves made. And for the first time since entering this imposing house, I feel hope unfurling in my chest.