“I’m recovering from bronchitis, Dad. I told you on the phone.”
“You sound fine,” Jason murmured.
“Lunch’s ready.”
Linda, my mother, hurried into the room, drying her hands on a flowered apron. She scrutinized me with a critical, penetrating gaze.
“Mabel, fix your hair. You look like you just rolled out of bed and set the table.”
“Jason, go wash up.”
“Why do I have to set the table?” I asked, even though I was already heading to the dining room. It was pure memory. “Because your brother is tired. He’s had a rough week,” Mom said, lowering her voice to that conspiratorial, sympathetic tone she reserved exclusively for her spoiled little boy.
I paused, holding a stack of plates. A rough week. He works 20 hours a week at the electronics store. Not anymore, she said, pressing her lips together.
“We’ll discuss it at the table. Sit down.”
The order was firm. I sat down. My stomach churned, and it wasn’t from hunger. The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. The air grew thick, charged with a specific static that always preceded a demand. I looked at the three of them: my father staring at his plate, my mother fiddling with her napkin, and Jason with a defiant, smug look.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“We have news,” Mom began, placing a hand on top of Jason’s on the tablecloth. “Bad news. Your brother was fired yesterday.”
“Fired?” I automatically corrected myself. “You don’t get fired from a customer service shift for no reason.”
“It was a misunderstanding,” Jason blurted out, his face red. “The manager had it in for me. He said I was stealing time just by taking extra breaks. It’s complete nonsense.”
“You sound fine,” Jason murmured.
“Lunch’s ready.”
Linda, my mother, hurried into the room, drying her hands on a flowered apron. She scrutinized me with a critical, penetrating gaze.
“Mabel, fix your hair. You look like you just rolled out of bed and set the table.”
“Jason, go wash up.”
“Why do I have to set the table?” I asked, even though I was already heading to the dining room. It was pure memory. “Because your brother is tired. He’s had a rough week,” Mom said, lowering her voice to that conspiratorial, sympathetic tone she reserved exclusively for her spoiled little boy.
I paused, holding a stack of plates. A rough week. He works 20 hours a week at the electronics store. Not anymore, she said, pressing her lips together.
“We’ll discuss it at the table. Sit down.”
The order was firm. I sat down. My stomach churned, and it wasn’t from hunger. The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. The air grew thick, charged with a specific static that always preceded a demand. I looked at the three of them: my father staring at his plate, my mother fiddling with her napkin, and Jason with a defiant, smug look.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“We have news,” Mom began, placing a hand on top of Jason’s on the tablecloth. “Bad news. Your brother was fired yesterday.”
“Fired?” I automatically corrected myself. “You don’t get fired from a customer service shift for no reason.”
“It was a misunderstanding,” Jason blurted out, his face red. “The manager had it in for me. He said I was stealing time just by taking extra breaks. It’s complete nonsense.”
“It doesn’t matter whose fault it is,” Dad interrupted, slamming his fist on the table, sending the silverware flying. “The point is, he’s out of work, and the economy is a mess. It’s going to take him a while to find something that matches his talent.”
“Okay,” I said slowly, feeling the trap closing around me. “So, he looks for a new job. Why is this a family gathering?”
Mom took a deep breath. She looked at Dad, then at Jason, and finally fixed her gaze on me. “Jason has expenses, Mabel. Rent, car payment, credit cards. He can’t have a gap in payments, or he’ll ruin his credit history.”
“So?” I asked, my heart racing.
And Mom continued, her voice hardening, “We’ve reviewed our retirement budget, and we just can’t stretch it any further. We’ve helped him as much as we can.” She paused, and the silence stretched on, suffocating. So she finished, a smile plastered on her face that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“We’ve decided you’ll step in. You’ll cover his bills for a while, until he’s better.”
The betrayal hit me harder than the diagnosis I’d received two weeks ago. It wasn’t just a request; it was an order. They hadn’t asked me. They’d decided for me. The room seemed to tilt on its axis. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall suddenly sounded like a hammer blow to my skull.
“Excuse me,” I choked out, putting down my fork with a clang. “I think I misunderstood you. You want me to do what?”
“Pay his bills, Mabel. Don’t be dramatic,” Dad said, carving his roast beef as if he hadn’t just demanded thousands of dollars from me. “It’s not forever. Just the rent, the car, the insurance, maybe a little spending money so he doesn’t look like a pauper.”
“Spend money?” I repeated, raising my voice slightly. “I’m recovering from a serious illness. I have my own mortgage. I have medical bills from the pulmonologist. And you want me to pay yours?”ADVERTISEMENT
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“Okay,” I said slowly, feeling the trap closing around me. “So, he looks for a new job. Why is this a family gathering?”
Mom took a deep breath. She looked at Dad, then at Jason, and finally fixed her gaze on me. “Jason has expenses, Mabel. Rent, car payment, credit cards. He can’t have a gap in payments, or he’ll ruin his credit history.”
“So?” I asked, my heart racing.
And Mom continued, her voice hardening, “We’ve reviewed our retirement budget, and we just can’t stretch it any further. We’ve helped him as much as we can.” She paused, and the silence stretched on, suffocating. So she finished, a smile plastered on her face that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“We’ve decided you’ll step in. You’ll cover his bills for a while, until he’s better.”
The betrayal hit me harder than the diagnosis I’d received two weeks ago. It wasn’t just a request; it was an order. They hadn’t asked me. They’d decided for me. The room seemed to tilt on its axis. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall suddenly sounded like a hammer blow to my skull.
“Excuse me,” I choked out, putting down my fork with a clang. “I think I misunderstood you. You want me to do what?”
“Pay his bills, Mabel. Don’t be dramatic,” Dad said, carving his roast beef as if he hadn’t just demanded thousands of dollars from me. “It’s not forever. Just the rent, the car, the insurance, maybe a little spending money so he doesn’t look like a pauper.”
“Spend money?” I repeated, raising my voice slightly. “I’m recovering from a serious illness. I have my own mortgage. I have medical bills from the pulmonologist. And you want me to pay yours?”
