The relatives were still there, stuck in that awkward limbo between being told to leave and not wanting to abandon me. They stood in clusters, whispering, eyes darting between me and my parents. Plates had been set down on surfaces as if everyone had forgotten how to eat.
When I walked in, the room quieted.
My father lifted his chin, trying to reclaim authority. “Morris will be here any second,” he announced, as if that would restore order.
A moment later, the doorbell rang.
The sound was crisp, cutting through the heavy silence like a signal.
My father’s shoulders relaxed, victory returning. He strode toward the door as if opening it would summon justice itself.
I, meanwhile, swiped once more on my phone. One last confirmation. One last command executed through an app I’d built myself, tied into the security infrastructure of the house.
When the front door opened, Morris stood there with a leather briefcase in hand, suit immaculate, hair neatly combed. He looked slightly annoyed, the way a man looks when he’s been pulled away from something more profitable.