Young Writers Society

Out of nowhere, a gentle tapping on a glass interrupted us. I followed the sound to see my father standing in the center of the room, cup raised. He was never one to shy away from a crowd. A quiet sigh droned out of my mouth as all heads turned toward him, and drinks rose throughout.

“A toast! …On this day of gratitude, let us raise our glasses in celebration.” His eyes met mine from across the room with a foreboding permanence. His words conveyed he was not simply delivering a toast but imparting a lesson.

The clinking of glasses followed, and a chorus of agreement filled the air as he carried on with his speech. “Today, we come together not only as individuals but as a family. Blood in our veins unites us. May we always remember that as most important.”

He lifted his glass higher while his eyes never left 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 and the unbreakable tie that defines us.”

The toast echoed in shouts of ‘Here here’ repeated by several, and many finished the rest of their drinks. A servant opened the doors, calling us to dinner.

The transition from the drawing room to the formal dining room was seamless, a procession of people moving with practiced grace; even the children were well-mannered performers. Prior holidays at home felt nostalgic and comforting. This one was feeling like a bad stomachache.

Inside the dining room, the walls were a deep taupe, and a long, rectangular oak table was exquisitely prepared. It had a pristine white tablecloth and settings of fine china, crystal glassware, and polished silverware near each chair. Taking our seats between Ezekiel and Isadora, my parents positioned across from me, servants served the meal with precision, each dish a vision of culinary excellence.

As plates were presented, conversation flowed around the table. My paternal grandparents, who sat at the head of the table, took a particular interest in Ezekiel. Their questions drew out like the lines on their faces. Zeke handled the attention with admirable composure, answering questions with sincerity and charm. His ease of scrutiny didn’t go unnoticed, and I swelled with pride.

Despite the façade of civility, it was impossible to ignore the tension underneath. I caught my father’s cynical glances and how he whispered veiled comments to no one in particular. Even if he was the patriarch, my grandparents and their approval were most important; their acceptance was a symbolic seal to my family

As twilight shot in through the large windows, dessert arrived, a lavish dish of sweetness that concluded the meal. The scent of chocolate and alcohol engulfed the air. The conversation became softer following the descent of sunset. A few guests left, declining the delicacies.

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

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

My father, his eyes glassy from the cups of whiskey he had drank, forced a grim laugh. Beneath his breath, his words were a half-muted response, “When she goes to class.”

My glare met his across the table. Zeke, remaining resolute and with quick wit, interjected, “Well, you know, I’ve been a good influence. Abigail hasn’t missed a single lecture.”

A chuckle spread through the room, a strained politeness, a detraction for my father’s drunken behavior. My grandmother added 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 erupted. My father laughed grimly. “Yeah, do you know what isn’t a part of the experience?” He didn't wait for anyone to answer, forging ahead with his rant. “Ruining all that has been given to you.”

The atmosphere tightened like a coiled spring. Zeke’s jaw clenched, his fingers subtly gripping his knees, displaying his restraint. My head pounded as I fought to keep my voice strong. “Father, this isn’t the time or place for this discussion.”

But the whiskey had loosened my father’s control, and he barreled on, his voice louder, 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 remained fixated on his plate, his knuckles turning as white as his button-up, his posture rigid, with his muscular shoulders pulled tight in a forward position. His silence was heavy, the struggle to hold back words that might further escalate the situation. Although his eyes hadn’t moved, his staring was unfocused, showing his mind was elsewhere.

My mother attempted to intervene, her voice soothing but with little effect, “Now, Alek, let’s not ruin the evening.”

Paying her no mind, my father’s relenting continued. “This young man...” He gestured across the table with disgust. “…Has no place in our world. You can’t throw away everything for some romantic notion. It was one thing to have a little hobby in art. It is entirely different to bring this here.”

Zeke’s restraint shattered 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 fell into a thick silence, and the hushed whisperings about our exchange quieted. I froze. Had I heard him correctly?

My father’s eyes blazed but were also desperate. “Abigail, don’t be foolish. He doesn’t love you! He loves our money!”

Zeke rose from his chair in one fluid motion. As he stood, his spine seemed to straighten. His previously tense shoulders pulled back. With his jaw set, his hands hung at his sides, balled into clenched fists.

“Sir, you don’t know a damn thing about me.”

The standoff between them was a clash of wills and egos. I glanced at both of them, and part of me hoped a resolution would come from the wreckage, but I knew it wasn’t likely.

My father’s gaze remained on Zeke’s, neither looking away from the other. “Abigail, he will destroy your life.”

I stood on shaky legs, shoving the chair behind me. “The only one destroying my life is YOU!” I marched toward the exit, but Zeke did not follow.