Chapter 2 - Silent Carving
The drive back to Kevin’s house from the church parking lot earlier that week had been fine, but sitting in his dining room tonight felt like navigating a minefield. Kevin’s carving knife slid through the roasted turkey skin with rhythmic precision, yet every slice felt like a cover-up for his own cowardice.
Across the room, Joan sat motionless behind her disintegrating paper plate. Underneath the table, her shoes rested against the stiff corners of the twine-bound cardboard box.
Joan remembered the day Harold had brought that exact box home in October of 1955. They were newlyweds living in a small two-bedroom apartment in South Boston. Harold had worked overtime at the freight docks for three straight months to pay off the remaining balance on the wedding registry gift her mother had selected.
"A home isn't built on drywall, Joanie," Harold had said back then, setting the wooden crate down on their linoleum kitchen floor with a heavy thud. "It's built on how you treat the people sitting around your table."
For forty-three years, that set of Haviland Limoges had survived three house moves, two dogs, a basement flood, and Kevin’s tumultuous teenage years. Not a single chip. Not a hairline crack.
Now, watching her son carefully slice meat while refusing to look her in the eye, Joan felt a cold realization settle into her chest. It wasn't Brittany's spite that hurt the most—it was Kevin's silence. He had inherited his father’s posture, his father’s hands, and his father’s carving technique, but none of his father’s spine.
"More dark meat, Chloe?" Kevin asked Brittany’s sister, his voice unnaturally bright as he tried to fill the heavy silence hanging over his end of the table.
"Oh, just a sliver, Kevin," Chloe replied, passing her gold-rimmed porcelain plate back up. "Brittany’s gravy is simply divine this year."
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Joan took a small bite of turkey from her sagging paper plate, keeping her thumb pressed firmly under the soft bottom. She caught Emily’s eyes from across the table. The sixteen-year-old was staring down at her own plate, her fork picking uselessly at a pile of green beans.
Just hold on a little longer, sweetheart, Joan thought to herself, shifting her feet against the cool cardboard beneath her seat. The real meal hasn't even been served yet.
