Young Writers Society

Thanksgiving arrived in a whirlwind, beckoning us to embrace togetherness and gratitude. Zeke and I plan to go to my family’s home. My nervousness grows as he drives my car through the gate and up the winding drive.

Finally, my family’s wealthy estate looms over us as we park. He unbuckles his seatbelt, and I can see unease in the tense set of his shoulders and furrowed brow. I know the mansion's abundance and luxury starkly contrasts his upbringing. I can see he is grappling with the idea of being amidst such opulence, and I feel a twinge of guilt for bringing him into this world.

He looks over the expanse of the home before us, and a wry smile tugs at his lips. “Well, this is a far cry from the streets I’m used to.”

I laugh softly, charmed by his candid reaction. “You’ll find that my family has a taste for the finer things.”

I try to open my car door, but he stops me by putting his hand over mine and shutting my door back. He insists, “No, let me.”

Exiting his side of the car, he strides confidently around the front and opens my door with a grand gesture. I shoot him a glance, amused. He offers a quick reply, “What? Chivalry isn’t dead.”

As I step out of the car, my hand instinctively seeks his to ground myself. The butler, a man who has been with my family for years and has had many roles, including being our driver, greets us at the entryway. His neatly tailored uniform is symbolic of the formality that saturates the atmosphere.

We remove our coats, and he gracefully accepts them. He extends his gloved hand to Zeke, who shakes it with a blend of politeness and more force than necessary. “Welcome back, Miss Abigail,” the butler intones, his voice as refined as his appearance.

“Thank you, James. This is Ezekiel. Zeke, meet James.”

Zeke’s gaze meets the butlers with reluctance but then respect. This is out of his element, but he is trying. “Nice to meet you.”

James nods before turning his attention back to me. “Your family has gathered in the drawing room, Miss.”

I swallow a knot of nerves and nod, guiding Zeke there. The polished marble floors sparkle beneath the chandeliers that drip with crystals. As we walk, the sense of entering a world foreign to Zeke becomes more palpable. The drawing room’s massive double doors stand ajar, inviting us in.

As we enter, Zeke’s eyes sweep the room. The ample space has crisp cream furnishings and plush carpets, a shiny granite fireplace stretches along one wall, and elaborate light fixtures hang from the intricately molded ceiling. The air is scented with a hint of delicate floral notes, and polished silver-framed portraits line the walls, capturing generations of my family.

Zeke’s eyes glint with mischief. “A little too fine for my taste.”

I suppress a smile, appreciating his ability to laugh during such moments. “Yes, it’s quite contrived, isn’t it?”

Our entrance doesn’t go unnoticed, and my mother gracefully saunters over to us, wearing sophisticated attire and a warm smile. “Abigail, dear, it’s lovely to see you.” Her eyes flicker towards Zeke, and although her smile doesn’t waver, I can tell she’s assessing him. He is wearing a tux for this occasion, another thing out of his comfort zone.

I reassuringly squeeze his hand, silently reminding him I am here. My mother hugs me. “It’s good to be home for the holidays, Mother.”

She releases me and finally shifts her attention to Zeke. “And who is this charming young man you’ve brought with you?” Her tone may be polite, but her words have an edge.

I step slightly closer to Zeke, our hands entwining again. “Mother, Ezekiel. Zeke, my mother.”

Zeke extends a hand with a cordial smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Winslow.”

My mother’s demeanor softens as she accepts his handshake. “Likewise, Ezekiel. Please, call me Rebeccah.”

His posture relaxes. “Sure thing, please call me Zeke.”

She laughs at the playfulness in his tone, but the moment is interrupted by further introductions from my sister and extended family. The atmosphere remains cordial, but I’m attuned to the subtleties. There are unspoken judgments that linger beneath the surface. Zeke navigates the dance of mingling with an unassuming charisma. His well-placed smile reminds me of the strain he bears, being an outsider.

My father’s entrance into the room immediately changes the energy. He’s a tall, distinguished man with striking blue eyes. He demands a room’s attention the minute he walks into it, emitting an air of authority. He greets me enthusiastically, outwardly diminishing our recent fighting. “Abigail!” He calls, wrapping an arm around my neck. His gaze shifts to Zeke, and for a moment, there’s a calculated pause, as if he’s sizing up the person standing next to his daughter.

I inhale slowly, hoping for the best. “Father, this is Ezekiel. Zeke, my father, Mr. Winslow.”

Zeke extends his hand, his confidence not faltering. “Pleasure to meet you, sir.”

My father’s handshake is firm, his eyes piercing as they lock onto Zeke’s. “Likewise,” he replies curtly before turning his attention back to me. “Abigail, may I have a word with you in private?”

My heart skips a beat as I exchange a glance with Zeke, an unspoken promise that I’ll be back soon. As I follow my father out of the room, his disapproval lingers heavily. He leads me the way to his study. The doors close behind us, shutting out the festivities happening beyond. The room is richly decorated, filled with dark wood furnishings and shelves lined with leather-bound books. The air carries faint hints of cigar smoke that was not here when we met last.

My father gestures to a leather chair, and I sit, my palms clammy as I brace myself. He remains standing, his hands clasped behind his back as he paces slowly before me.

“Abigail,” he begins, his voice measured and deliberate, continuing his steps. “I must admit, I’m somewhat surprised by your choice of company.”

I swallow the lump in my throat, trying to steady myself. “Zeke is a good person, Father. He’s funny and intelligent, and he treats me with respect. He cares about me.”

He stops pacing and looks at me with a stern expression. “Respect? Great. Cares? Sure. But is he suitable for you? Your upbringing has groomed you for a certain path, and this… young man, he’s from a different world altogether.”

I take a deep breath, my fingers tightly clutching the chair’s armrest. “Father, I understand that Zeke’s background is different from ours. But he’s worked hard to overcome his circumstances to build a better life for himself. And how he treats me matters more, right?”

My father’s gaze doesn’t relent. “I’m not questioning his work ethic or intentions. I’m concerned about whether he can provide for you the life you deserve.”

The rage surges through me. This is a struggle I’ve known all too well. Nothing is good enough for him. Who or what I love is not important. He crossed a line by destroying my art, and I will not sit idly back anymore. “I don’t need someone to provide for me, Father. I want someone who understands and supports me. Someone who makes me happy and loves me deeply.”

He sighs heavily, his expression softening briefly before hardening again. “Abigail, this is not just about you. It’s about our family. It’s about your future children and their children’s children.”

Tears threaten to spill from my eyes. “Father, I love you and respect our family, but I need to live my own life however I choose and whichever way feels right to me.”

He leans against his desk, crossing his arms, and worry spreads across his wrinkled features. “Abigail, I only want what’s best for you. You may not fully understand the implications of your choices.”

I wipe away a tear that escapes, my voice trembling as I speak. “I hope in time, you can see Zeke for who he is and not just where he comes from. Not everything is about money, you know?”

He takes a deep breath, his resolve appearing to shift momentarily. “I know that, but remember, certain expectations are placed upon us. I hope you won’t disregard them entirely.”

I nod, sadness swirling within me. “I won’t forget where I come from, Father. But you need to stop trying to dictate every aspect of my life.”

Before he can respond, I stand and exit the study. As I approach the gathering, Zeke’s eyes find mine almost immediately, concern weighing them, and I notice that my father does not follow me.

Isadora is by the grand piano, chatting animatedly with a group of guests. She spots me, her eyes narrowing as if she can sense something is amiss. She’s adept at reading my emotions, even when a smile masks them, and she’s always ready to referee my fights with our father.

I approach her, and she excuses herself from the conversation. “What happened?”

Managing a weak smile, I attempt to downplay the intensity of the conversation with our father. “It’s nothing, Izzy. Just a difference of opinion, you know how it gets.”

She arches an eyebrow, not entirely convinced. “You can’t lie to me.”

A sigh escapes me, and I glance around to ensure no prying ears are nearby. “It’s Zeke. Father doesn’t like him.”

She places a comforting hand on my arm. “He’s protective and loves us but doesn’t know when to stop.

“He sees Zeke’s background as a threat to our family’s reputation.”

Her gaze softens, and she squeezes my arm. “I’ll talk to him and try to make him understand. I can see how happy Zeke makes you.”

“Good luck in getting him to listen.”

We hug, and as she pulls away, she pleads, “Just… be patient with him, okay? He’s going to need time.”

“Well, I’ve never been known for patience, but I’ll try my best. So, don’t be surprised if I start growing a few gray hairs while waiting for him to change.”

Isadora’s eyes crinkle with a laugh. “Fair point.”

We share a quiet giggle before approaching footsteps draws our attention, causing us to stop. I turn to see Zeke. “What did I miss,” he asks.

I exchange a quick glance with Isadora, and in that shared look, I see her wordless approval of the man who stands before us. She leans in and playfully nudges my arm, a conspiratorial smile dancing on her lips.

“Oh, just some sisterly advice,” I respond, returning the nudge.

Zeke raises an eyebrow, his eyes shifting between us with amusement. “Advice, huh?”

“Izzy here thinks she can work some sisterly magic and reason with our father.”

Zeke’s laughter ripples through the air, and the dimple I love appears, telling me it’s sincere. “Well, I’m all for magical interventions, but she’s gonna need some strong voodoo for that.”

Isadora laughs, and members of our family glance at us. “Send all the positive vibrations this way.” She leans closer to me and whispers, “Just promise me that you won’t let anyone or anything stand in the way of your happiness.”

I hold her gaze and mouth the words ‘I promise.’

Suddenly, we are interrupted by the gentle tapping on glass. I follow the sound to see my father standing in the center of the room, cup raised. He’s never one to shy away from a crowd. All heads turn toward him, and drinks rise throughout. “A toast!”

“On this day of gratitude, let us raise our glasses in celebration.” His words convey that he is not simply delivering a toast but imparting a lesson.

The clinking of glasses follows, and a chorus of agreement fills the air as he continues, “Today, we come together not only as individuals but as a family. Blood, shared experiences, and commitment to each other unite us. May we always remember the values that have guided us through the years.”

He lifts his glass higher as his eyes lock onto mine. “Let us toast to the abundance before us and to the bonds that hold us together. May we never take it for granted. To family, love, and the unbreakable ties that define us.”

I am surrounded by the echoes of a toast and the warmth of familial camaraderie. “Here, here” is repeated by several of my uncles, and many finish the rest of their drinks.

The transition from the drawing room to the formal dining room is seamless, a procession of family members moving with practiced grace. As we enter the dining room, the long table is elegantly set, with settings of fine China at each chair. Taking our seats, I am situated between Ezekiel and Isadora. My parents are positioned across from me, projecting dignified contentment.

Our meal is served with precision, each dish a vision of culinary excellence. As plates are presented, conversation flows around the table. My grandparents, who sit at the head of the table, take a particular interest in Ezekiel. Their questioning draws out like the lines on their faces. Zeke handles the attention with admirable composure, answering questions with sincerity and charm. His ease in scrutiny doesn’t go unnoticed, and I swell with pride at his ability to navigate this world.

Despite the façade of civility, it is impossible to ignore the tension underneath. I catch my father’s cynical glances and how he whispers veiled comments to my mother. Even if he is the patriarch, my grandparents’ approval is most important; their acceptance is a symbolic seal of legitimacy in the eyes of my family.

As twilight casts its gentle hues through the large windows, dessert arrives, a lavish dish of sweetness that concludes the meal. The air is swarmed with aromas of chocolate and alcohol. The conversation is softer, following the transition from day to night.

Among the delicate clinking of dessert forks against plates, my grandmother’s small voice rises, “Dear Abigail, how is your senior year going?”

Wiping my mouth with a napkin, I offer her a warm smile. “Thank you for asking, Grandma. It’s been quite the journey so far.”

My father, who has indulged in several glasses of whiskey throughout the meal, grimly laughs. Beneath his breath, his words are a half-muttered response, “When she goes to class.”

The comment draws my attention, my glare meeting his across the table. Zeke, remaining resolute and with quick wit, interjects, “Well, you know, I’ve been a good influence. Abigail hasn’t missed a single lecture.”

A chuckle spreads through the room, a strained politeness masked by Zeke’s humor against my father’s drunken behavior. My grandmother adds her touch to the exchange. “Ah, the joys of senior year and the trials of attendance. It’s all part of the experience, my dear.”

Then, like a spark igniting a dry forest, an argument erupts as my father adds, “Yeah, do you know what isn’t a part of the experience?” He doesn’t wait for anyone to answer. “Ruining all that has been given to you.”

The atmosphere tightens like a coiled spring and turns icy. Zeke’s jaw clenches, his fingers subtly gripping the edge of the table, a display of his restraint. My head pounds as I fight to keep my voice strong. “Father, this isn’t the time or place for this discussion.”

But the whiskey has loosened my father’s control, and he barrels on, his voice louder now, carrying a deep bite. “You bring an outsider into my home and expect me not to say anything? You don’t understand, Abigail. My sweet angel, you are so sheltered from the reaction you cause.”

Zeke’s eyes remain fixated on his plate, his knuckles white as he clenches the table. His silence is heavy, and I can feel the anger raging within him, the struggle to hold back words that might further escalate the situation.

My mother attempts to intervene, her voice soothing, “Alek, please, let’s not ruin the evening.”

But my father pays her no mind, his focus persistent. “This young man,” he sneers the words, gesturing across the table with a look of disgust, “has no place in our world. You can’t just throw away everything for some romantic notion. It was one thing for you to have your little hobby in art. It is an entirely different one to bring this here.”

Zeke’s restraint shatters like glass, his voice cutting through with firm control. “Mr. Winslow, with all due respect, I may not come from the same background, but I love your daughter. I respect her and will do everything possible to make her happy.”

The room falls into a thick silence, and the previous hushed whisperings about our exchange have quieted. I am frozen at his words. Did I hear him correctly?

My father's eyes blaze with anger but also a hint of desperation. "Abigail, don't be so foolish. He doesn't love you! He loves our money!"

Zeke stands, his posture strong. "Sir, you don't know a damn thing about me."

The standoff between them is a clash of wills and egos. I glance from one to the other and hope a resolution will eventually emerge from the wreckage, but I am not sure it can.

My father adds, "Abigail, he will destroy your life."

I stand on shaky legs, shoving the chair behind me. "The only one destroying my life is YOU!" I march toward the exit, but Zeke does not follow.

His glare is still fixated on my father. "Destroying her art didn't change who she is, nor will your disapproval of me."

My father's retort is like an icy dagger, his tone dripping with condescension. "When you come from this world, I'll dignify you with caring about your opinion."

"And that's the difference between you and me. I don't need someone to come from money to respect or care about their opinion. People's character is where real wealth lies."

My father laughs coldly. "You don't know a thing about respect or wealth coming from trash and all."

I march back to the table, slamming my hands down. "What the hell is wrong with you? You're so obsessed with your precious legacy that you've lost sight of what truly matters. Your shallow definition of wealth blinds you to the richness of people's hearts and minds. If you think coming from money makes someone superior, then you're the one who's truly trash."

My father stands up from the table on wobbly legs. "Don't you dare speak to me that way! Your deliberate disobedience has got to stop, young lady! You'd do better if you would listen to me!"

"And why should I listen to someone who acts like this?! Who treats people like you do??"

"If you think you are so well off without me, let's see how long you last without my money!"

His final blow reverberates through the room, and the tension has reached a breaking point as I retreat into the hallway. I lean against the wall, my thoughts a swirling tornado. This fight has replaced the holiday spirit that once filled the house. Minutes feel like hours as I wrestle with my emotions. And then, I hear Zeke's footsteps. He closes the door behind him and gently cups my face, his thumb brushing away the tears I hadn't realized had fallen.

"I'm so proud of you for standing up to him," he murmurs, moving my hair from my face. I reach my arms out for him, and he surrounds me. The moment is interrupted by shouting from the other room.

I hear my mother and father arguing.

"Alek, this happens every time you drink! I'm so tired of Jekyll and Hyde! You have got to stop!" My mother's voice is strained, and I can tell she's crying.

"No, you've got to stop letting those girls throw their lives away!" My father's voice slurs, making his words hard to understand.

"How are they throwing their lives away? Isadora is so disciplined and afraid of you that she doesn't dare act out of line. And what is Abigail doing that is so wrong?"

"Oh, you'd be one to support her stupid choices. You wouldn't be so well off if you had pursued art. So now what? Are you living vicariously through her?"

"Do you ever know when enough is enough?" My mother's high heels marching toward the exit get louder. She opens the door, looks between Zeke and me, tears in her eyes, and continues to march toward their bedroom.

In the formal dining room, there is silence for a few minutes. Zeke stands beside me, unsure of what to say. Slowly, a few voices start talking, the conversation about the food as an attempt to disregard the drama.

My belligerent father doesn't follow after my mother but instead drinks another shot of whiskey before dropping his glass on the ground accidentally. My grandfather stands, glaring at him. "Son, you have had enough."

My father laughs and says something incoherent. He staggers toward the exit. Zeke and I slip around the corner as he walks through the doorway, avoiding him. He continues down the opposite direction before turning toward the patio.

Zeke and I stare at each other awkwardly. I sigh and wipe the tears from my cheeks. He grabs me into a hug and kisses my temple. My grandfather turns around the corner, clears his throat, and we separate.

"Young man, I appreciate how you stood up to that brute in there," he asserts, reaching for Zeke's hand. They exchange a firm handshake as he adds, "And Abigail darling, that was a long time coming! Please come back and finish dessert. Your father has graciously left the meal."

As we sit down, my grandmother, in her shaky voice, says, "Your father wasn't always like that, you know? As he's gotten older, his heart has hardened." Her eyes take on a faraway look, lost in memories

I stare at her, unable to imagine him being any other way.

My grandfather takes a bite of cake before adding, "It was many years ago before your father took over the family business. We were starting our expansion into property investments and struggling to get that up and running. Your father was a young man full of dreams and desires. He believed in the power of unity in helping those less fortunate. He used to organize events, fundraisers, and charity drives. That's where he met your mother. He had a way of inspiring others to come together for a common cause."

I listen, captivated by this unfamiliar version of my father. My grandfather's eyes fill with sadness as he continues, "But then, there was an incident that changed everything. A close friend, someone he had helped numerous times, betrayed him in the worst way possible. It shattered his trust in belief in the goodness of people."

My grandmother reaches for my hand, her grip frail but firm. "That incident wounded him deeply. He withdrew from the world, burying himself in work and ambition. It was as if a spark had been extinguished within him. He became obsessed with success, money, and power, believing they were the only reliable sources worth putting energy into."

I glance at Zeke, his eyes full of empathy. It's strange how understanding someone's past can offer a different perspective on their present actions. As we continue our dessert, I chew over how much my father has supposedly changed and how he has strayed so far from that path.

Thin tension remains in the room. Despite the lingering discomfort, there's a slight possibility that today's events may pave the way for a change in my family's perceptions. Tonight has revealed long-suppressed truths, opening wounds but offering opportunities for healing. We finish the meal, and my grandparents and Isadora talk to Zeke with genuine warmth.

As servants are cleaning the table and we stand in the foyer, my mother returns with new makeup applied.

"Am I in time to say goodbye too?" she asks as I pull away from hugging Isadora.

She and I embrace in a tight hug, and she whispers, "I'll be sure that some of your expenses are taken care of, but I know your father has proceedings over the university. If he continues, he is likely to withdraw your college tuition. Although, after our little spat, I am sure he will not add to the fire, or he knows what consequence will come."

I smooth my dress, processing her words. "I'm not sure I will be home for Christmas. I don't want to choose between him and Ezekiel."

She smiles sadly. "I understand, dear. Please know that I love and support whatever you choose. Your father's thinking or lack thereof does not reflect upon me."

I nod, knowing my father's influence could impact my future. I'm grateful for my mother's understanding and willingness to shield me from some of the fallout.

She then turns to Ezekiel, who stands beside me, a mix of emotions on his face. Her gesture is unexpected, reaching out to hug him. He tenses briefly, caught off guard by her sudden warmth. "I want to apologize for my husband's poor behavior."

Zeke relaxes into the hug, clearly surprised but touched by her sincerity. "Thank you, Mrs. Winslow. I appreciate that."

As they pull away, my mother gives us both a reassuring smile. "Take care of each other, value each other's passions, and don't listen to anyone's negative opinion."

The room falls into a thick silence, and the previous hushed whisperings about our exchange have quieted. I am frozen at his words. Did I hear him correctly?

My father's eyes blaze with anger but also a hint of desperation. "Abigail, don't be so foolish. He doesn't love you! He loves our money!"

Zeke stands, his posture strong. "Sir, you don't know a damn thing about me."

The standoff between them is a clash of wills and egos. I glance from one to the other and hope a resolution will eventually emerge from the wreckage, but I am not sure it can.

My father adds, "Abigail, he will destroy your life."

I stand on shaky legs, shoving the chair behind me. "The only one destroying my life is YOU!" I march toward the exit, but Zeke does not follow.

His glare is still fixated on my father. "Destroying her art didn't change who she is, nor will your disapproval of me."

My father's retort is like an icy dagger, his tone dripping with condescension. "When you come from this world, I'll dignify you with caring about your opinion."

"And that's the difference between you and me. I don't need someone to come from money to respect or care about their opinion. People's character is where real wealth lies."

My father laughs coldly. "You don't know a thing about respect or wealth coming from trash and all."

I march back to the table, slamming my hands down. "What the hell is wrong with you? You're so obsessed with your precious legacy that you've lost sight of what truly matters. Your shallow definition of wealth blinds you to the richness of people's hearts and minds. If you think coming from money makes someone superior, then you're the one who's truly trash."

My father stands up from the table on wobbly legs. "Don't you dare speak to me that way! Your deliberate disobedience has got to stop, young lady! You'd do better if you would listen to me!"

"And why should I listen to someone who acts like this?! Who treats people like you do??"

"If you think you are so well off without me, let's see how long you last without my money!"

His final blow reverberates through the room, and the tension has reached a breaking point as I retreat into the hallway. I lean against the wall, my thoughts a swirling tornado. This fight has replaced the holiday spirit that once filled the house. Minutes feel like hours as I wrestle with my emotions. And then, I hear Zeke's footsteps. He closes the door behind him and gently cups my face, his thumb brushing away the tears I hadn't realized had fallen.

"I'm so proud of you for standing up to him," he murmurs, moving my hair from my face. I reach my arms out for him, and he surrounds me. The moment is interrupted by shouting from the other room.

I hear my mother and father arguing.

"Alek, this happens every time you drink! I'm so tired of Jekyll and Hyde! You have got to stop!" My mother's voice is strained, and I can tell she's crying.

"No, you've got to stop letting those girls throw their lives away!" My father's voice slurs, making his words hard to understand.

"How are they throwing their lives away? Isadora is so disciplined and afraid of you that she doesn't dare act out of line. And what is Abigail doing that is so wrong?"

"Oh, you'd be one to support her stupid choices. You wouldn't be so well off if you had pursued art. So now what? Are you living vicariously through her?"

"Do you ever know when enough is enough?" My mother's high heels marching toward the exit get louder. She opens the door, looks between Zeke and me, tears in her eyes, and continues to march toward their bedroom.

In the formal dining room, there is silence for a few minutes. Zeke stands beside me, unsure of what to say. Slowly, a few voices start talking, the conversation about the food as an attempt to disregard the drama.

My belligerent father doesn't follow after my mother but instead drinks another shot of whiskey before dropping his glass on the ground accidentally. My grandfather stands, glaring at him. "Son, you have had enough."

My father laughs and says something incoherent. He staggers toward the exit. Zeke and I slip around the corner as he walks through the doorway, avoiding him. He continues down the opposite direction before turning toward the patio.

Zeke and I stare at each other awkwardly. I sigh and wipe the tears from my cheeks. He grabs me into a hug and kisses my temple. My grandfather turns around the corner, clears his throat, and we separate.

"Young man, I appreciate how you stood up to that brute in there," he asserts, reaching for Zeke's hand. They exchange a firm handshake as he adds, "And Abigail darling, that was a long time coming! Please come back and finish dessert. Your father has graciously left the meal."

As we sit down, my grandmother, in her shaky voice, says, "Your father wasn't always like that, you know? As he's gotten older, his heart has hardened." Her eyes take on a faraway look, lost in memories

I stare at her, unable to imagine him being any other way.

My grandfather takes a bite of cake before adding, "It was many years ago before your father took over the family business. We were starting our expansion into property investments and struggling to get that up and running. Your father was a young man full of dreams and desires. He believed in the power of unity in helping those less fortunate. He used to organize events, fundraisers, and charity drives. That's where he met your mother. He had a way of inspiring others to come together for a common cause."

I listen, captivated by this unfamiliar version of my father. My grandfather's eyes fill with sadness as he continues, "But then, there was an incident that changed everything. A close friend, someone he had helped numerous times, betrayed him in the worst way possible. It shattered his trust in belief in the goodness of people."

My grandmother reaches for my hand, her grip frail but firm. "That incident wounded him deeply. He withdrew from the world, burying himself in work and ambition. It was as if a spark had been extinguished within him. He became obsessed with success, money, and power, believing they were the only reliable sources worth putting energy into."

I glance at Zeke, his eyes full of empathy. It's strange how understanding someone's past can offer a different perspective on their present actions. As we continue our dessert, I chew over how much my father has supposedly changed and how he has strayed so far from that path.

Thin tension remains in the room. Despite the lingering discomfort, there's a slight possibility that today's events may pave the way for a change in my family's perceptions. Tonight has revealed long-suppressed truths, opening wounds but offering opportunities for healing. We finish the meal, and my grandparents and Isadora talk to Zeke with genuine warmth.

As servants are cleaning the table and we stand in the foyer, my mother returns with new makeup applied.

"Am I in time to say goodbye too?" she asks as I pull away from hugging Isadora.

She and I embrace in a tight hug, and she whispers, "I'll be sure that some of your expenses are taken care of, but I know your father has proceedings over the university. If he continues, he is likely to withdraw your college tuition. Although, after our little spat, I am sure he will not add to the fire, or he knows what consequence will come."

I smooth my dress, processing her words. "I'm not sure I will be home for Christmas. I don't want to choose between him and Ezekiel."

She smiles sadly. "I understand, dear. Please know that I love and support whatever you choose. Your father's thinking or lack thereof does not reflect upon me."

I nod, knowing my father's influence could impact my future. I'm grateful for my mother's understanding and willingness to shield me from some of the fallout.

She then turns to Ezekiel, who stands beside me, a mix of emotions on his face. Her gesture is unexpected, reaching out to hug him. He tenses briefly, caught off guard by her sudden warmth. "I want to apologize for my husband's poor behavior."

Zeke relaxes into the hug, clearly surprised but touched by her sincerity. "Thank you, Mrs. Winslow. I appreciate that."

As they pull away, my mother gives us both a reassuring smile. “Take care of each other, value each other’s passions, and don’t listen to anyone’s negative opinion.”

With determination in his eyes, Ezekiel says, “We won’t.”

We leave my family’s estate behind, stepping into the night, and exhaustion hits me. We walk hand in hand to my car and stop short of it. Zeke wraps his arms around me, pulling me close. “You know, your family might be a challenge, but I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know… I love you.” My cheeks flush from the confession.

He leans down, brushing his lips against my forehead, nose, and lips. “And I love you more,” he replies as he opens my car door for me.

“It’s not a competition,” I laugh as I step into the car.

Just before he closes the door, he quips, “No, because if it were, I would win.” He flashes a mischievous grin, and I laugh. He closes the door with a soft thud, and I watch him through the window as he walks around to the driver’s side. He settles into his seat and starts the engine, holding onto my hand and rubbing his thumb back and forth. We drive into the night, leaving the echoes of the tumultuous dinner behind us.