2
The green liquid swirled in the glass. Ethan’s
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hands trembled slightly; at fifteen, the
charade was clearly a strain. “What kind of
tea is this?” I asked, even though I knew. A
flicker of hope, perhaps, a pathetic sliver of
denial.
“Just regular tea, Mom. Drink it,” he mumbled, avoiding my eyes. He’d learned to lie. I looked away, trying to maintain composure. “Where’s your father? It’s my birthday. He could at least bring me a cake.” My voice dripped with sarcasm. Seven birthdays, ignored.
“Your birthday? Oh, right…that’s why I came home early,” Ethan stammered, glancing at the doorway. “Dad will be here soon. He’s
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just… finishing something up.”
The door opened. Mark strode in, impeccably
dressed, a flicker of anticipation in his usually stern eyes. Like Ethan, he was waiting for me to drink. Once I did, my “sensitive soul” would be numb. I wouldn’t be a “dramatic” wife, an embarrassment. He and Ethan could embrace Amelia without reservation. And I, no longer loving them, wouldn’t care. That was their plan.
I scoffed and took the glass. Mark hesitated at the doorway. “Did you forget my present?” I asked, knowing he hadn’t bought one. He frowned. It had become a habit; a constant expression of impatience whenever he
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addressed me.
“Dad, it’s her birthday! You said you got her a gift,” Ethan jumped in.
Mark feigned realization. “Right! Of course. I got you… that piano you wanted. It’s at the office. I’ll bring it tomorrow.” His lie was smoother than Ethan’s, delivered with
practiced indifference.
I nodded, my eyes fixed on the swirling liquid.
Father and son fell silent. An eerie stillness
descended. They were waiting.
