“I have been working on this centerpiece all afternoon,” Bradley lied with a modest nod while I stood in the doorway holding the empty platter.
As the guests took their seats, I realized they had arranged the table settings in a way that left no clear place for me to sit down.
I had sat at the head of this table for over twenty years, yet now I was standing at the edge of the room watching strangers fill my space.
When my fingers closed around the back of my favorite wooden chair, the harsh scraping sound of the legs against the hardwood cut through the chatter.
Bradley slammed both of his palms against the table with such force that the wine glasses jumped and a napkin fluttered to the floor.
“Get out because you are not invited to this family table,” he barked while his face turned a deep and angry shade of crimson.
I stopped moving and stood fully upright before asking him if he had truly forgotten whose house we were currently standing in.
“In the house where we live, you are only here on our terms, so you should be grateful that we tolerate your presence at all,” he sneered.