Chapter 2 - The Toast at the Table
The dining room chandelier cast a harsh, glittering amber light over the roasted turkey and the crystal goblets, illuminating every carefully curated detail of my family’s wealth. Mother’s annual Christmas dinner was less a celebration of family and more a public relations campaign for her social standing, a fact made painfully clear the moment she tapped her silver fork against her water glass, demanding silence.
"Before we partake in the second course," Mother announced, her voice ringing with practiced theatricality, "I want to take a moment to reflect on generosity. True generosity of spirit, and of course, lifestyle."
A ripple of polite murmurs passed around the table. Julian beamed, clearly anticipating another announcement about his trust fund or his children’s elite private school tuitions. My aunt shifted uncomfortably, and Chloe stared hard at her mashed potatoes, her fork scraping a silent, furious rhythm against her porcelain plate.
"We live in an era where people forget standards," Mother continued, her gaze sweeping slowly down the length of the table until it landed, with surgical precision, right on me and Mia. "They bring half-formed lives into this world without securing their footing, expecting the rest of us to admire their struggle as if poverty were some sort of noble aesthetic."
My blood ran instantly cold. I felt Mia stir against my chest, sensing my sudden physical tension, letting out a small, questioning coo.
May you like
"Take our Elena, for instance," Mother said, offering a tight, patronizing smile that didn’t reach her icy blue eyes. "Struggling along in that dreadful two-bedroom walk-up, working part-time at some obscure graphic design firm, trying to raise a child on sheer willpower and Pinterest boards. It’s tragic, really. Look at those gifts under the tree for little Mia. Three tiny things. Not even a proper branded toy among them. It breaks my heart to see a child of our blood introduced to such bleak mediocrity on her very first Christmas. But I suppose when you have nothing to give, you give nothing."
A stifled chuckle rippled from Julian’s wife, Cynthia, who quickly covered her mouth with a diamond-ringed hand. The silence that followed was thick, suffocating, and dripping with malicious amusement. Everyone at the table looked away—some in shame, others in quiet agreement. They had all watched me drown over the past year, and tonight, Mother had decided to turn my survival into her holiday entertainment.
