Chapter 2 - The Shrine of the Golden Child
The front door was unlocked—it rarely was locked in this neighborhood, a sleepy enclave of manicured lawns and barking retrievers. As Patrick pushed it open, the heavy, cloying scent of buttercream frosting, baby powder, and expensive floral arrangements hit him like a physical blow.
The living room had been transformed into a pastel war zone. Streamers crisscrossed the ceiling fan, fluttering whenever the breeze from the hallway hit them. Used wrapping paper, crumpled sheets of pink tissue paper, and ribbons littered the hardwood floor like battlefield debris.
In the center of it all, propped up in the oversized leather recliner with a velvet lumbar pillow behind her back, sat Julia. She wore an oversized cream-colored cashmere sweater that draped over her swollen belly. Her blonde hair was curled into perfect, effortless waves, framing a face that looked simultaneously bored and aggrieved.
Beside her, kneeling on the floor with a pair of silver embroidery scissors, was their mother, Eleanor. Eleanor was meticulously snipping the price tags off a pile of designer baby clothes—organic cotton onesies from a boutique in Saratoga Springs that cost more than Patrick’s weekly grocery budget.
Standing near the brick fireplace was their father, Robert, holding a plastic flute of sparkling cider and nodding as an aunt from out of town admired a gleaming white wooden crib pushed against the living room wall.
Nobody noticed Patrick standing in the entryway for a full ten seconds.
Then Robert turned, his glass halfway to his mouth. His expression didn't soften; it hardened into a scowl that looked carved from granite.
"Well, look who finally decided to grace us with his presence," Robert announced, his voice carrying easily over the muted murmur of the room's remaining guests. "The prodigal son returns from his grand adventure."
The conversation in the room instantly died. Aunt Brenda stopped mid-sentence about diaper rashes. Eleanor froze with the scissors half-an-inch from a tiny pair of pink socks.
Julia didn't look up immediately. She took a slow sip from a glass of iced lemonade, ran a manicured hand over her stomach, and finally raised her heavy-lidded blue eyes toward the doorway.
"Did you bring the stroller, Patrick?" Julia asked, her voice light, carrying that familiar singsong condescension that had tormented him through middle school and high school. "We registered for the Uppababy Vista, and since you skipped the shower, I assumed you’d have it delivered here directly. We’re still accepting gift cards, though. Venmo is fine too."
Patrick didn't move from the threshold. His navy graduation folder was tucked securely under his left arm. He felt as though he were standing underwater, watching the world through a thick, distorting lens.
"I didn't bring a stroller, Julia," Patrick said quietly. His voice didn't shake. He had spent four years presenting financial audits to stern-faced professors; he had learned the power of a flat, unemotional tone. "And I didn't come to shop."
Eleanor rose from the floor, smoothing down her floral skirt with flour-dusted hands—she had been baking pastries since dawn. Her face was a mask of exhausted disappointment.
"Is that really how you walk into your sister’s house, Patrick? Without even a card? Without a hug for your mother after you gave me a panic attack with your little disappearing act?" Eleanor stepped toward him, her hands raised in a gesture of utter bewilderment. "Do you have any idea what kind of stress you put us under today? Your grandmother was calling every twenty minutes asking if you were in jail."
"I wasn't in jail, Mom," Patrick said, his gaze fixed on her face. "I was graduating from college."
Robert scoffed, setting his plastic flute down on the mantel with a sharp clack. "Oh, give it a rest with the melodrama, Patrick. You went to a state school. You sat in a chair, you took a piece of paper, and it was over in two hours. Your sister is bringing new life into this family. She is building a future. What did you expect us to do? Cancel a family milestone that involved fifty people just so we could watch you walk across a gymnasium stage?"
"Yes," Patrick said. The word dropped into the room like a lead weight.
Robert blinked, as if he hadn't quite processed the syllable. "Excuse me?"
"I expected you to be there," Patrick said, stepping past the threshold into the room, his boots clicking rhythmically against the hardwood. "Not because it was a grand adventure, but because it was important to me. Because for four years, every time I couldn't pay my electric bill, every time I had to choose between buying a textbook and eating dinner for three days, I kept going because I told myself: My parents will be there at the end. Just two people in the audience. That’s all I wanted."
Eleanor pressed a hand to her chest, her lower lip trembling slightly—the prelude to one of her famous emotional retreats where she would lock herself in the master bedroom until Robert came in to comfort her.
"How can you be so selfish, Patrick?" Eleanor whispered, tears welling in her eyes with terrifying speed. "After everything we’ve sacrificed for you?"
Patrick stopped dead in his tracks. A cold, bitter laugh escaped his throat before he could stop it.
"Sacrificed?" Patrick repeated, his voice rising just enough to vibrate against the glass of the picture windows. "What did you sacrifice for me, Mom? Please, enlighten me. Did you take out a loan for my tuition? Did you pay my rent when I was working forty hours a week at the diner? Did you buy me a car when I turned sixteen, or did I walk four miles through winter snowstorms while Julia was chauffeured around in a brand-new sedan?"
"That car was a necessity!" Robert bellowed, taking a menacing step forward, his chest puffed out, his face flushing purple. "Julia had a rigorous dance schedule and after-school clubs that built her college resume! You chose to work at a greasy diner because you refused to apply yourself to proper networking! You’ve always had a chip on your shoulder, Patrick. Ever since you were a little boy, you’ve resented your sister just because she had a brighter personality than your gloomy, sullen self!"
Julia sighed dramatically from her recliner, leaning her head back against the velvet pillow. "Mom, Dad, can we please not do this today? The baby can literally feel my heart rate spiking. Patrick, if you’re just here to throw a pity party because you didn't get your little gold star, you should just leave. You’re ruining the vibe."
Patrick looked at his sister. He looked at the manicured nails, the designer sweater, the smug, untouchable expression of a girl who had never once in her nineteen years been told no by anyone who mattered.
"You're right, Julia," Patrick said softly. "I shouldn't have come."
He turned on his heel, the navy folder heavy under his arm, and walked back toward the front door.
"That’s right, walk away!" Robert shouted at his back, his voice cracking with righteous fury. "And don't you dare come back through that door until you've learned some respect! You’re twenty-two years old, but you act like a spoiled toddler who didn't get his favorite toy!"
Patrick didn't look back. He pulled the front door open, stepped out onto the porch, and let the screen door slam shut behind him with a sharp, definitive bang.
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As he walked down the driveway toward his car, he heard his mother sobbing loudly inside, followed by Julia’s soothing, high-pitched voice: "Don't cry, Mommy. He’s just bitter because nobody loves a nerd."
Patrick got into his car, dropped the folder onto the passenger seat, and gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned translucent. He didn't cry. Instead, a strange, terrifying calm washed over him. The last anchor tying him to this house, to these people, had just snapped clean off.
