“He works hard, Emily, but some engines never get out of first gear,” my father said, reaching for his wine glass to take a slow, deliberate sip. “A man who spends his days doing oil changes and brake pads isn’t building a future. He’s just paying yesterday’s bills.”
“He manages the entire shop now,” I said, my voice tight. “Marcus relies on him for everything.”
“Marcus is an old man who has been trying to sell that dying business for five years,” my father said, waving his hand dismissively. “It is a dead end, and everyone in this town knows it.”
My mother murmured something soft and unintelligible, her fingers smoothing the napkin even faster now.
“What did you say, Susan?” my father asked, his tone sharpening.
“I just wondered if anyone wanted more butter,” she whispered, her eyes remaining fixed on the table.
“Nobody wants more butter,” he said, tapping his ring against the glass again. “I am trying to have a serious conversation about our family’s future.”
“Our future is fine, Dad,” I said, the pauses between my words stretching out.
“It is not fine when my grandson is riding around in a rusted box,” my father said, his voice rising to its full, authoritative volume. “It is an embarrassment to this family.”
“Daniel is a good father,” I said.
“You married a poor man, Emily,” my father said, his words landing like heavy stones on the table.
Vanessa checked her phone again, her thumb scrolling quickly through whatever message had just arrived.
“He will never be anything more than a mechanic,” my father continued, his expression hardening. “And if a thirty-eight dollar grocery bill is enough to throw off your monthly ledger, I think it is best if you stay home this Thanksgiving.”
I looked at my mother, waiting for her to say something, anything, to challenge him. She only stared at her plate, her hands finally still on her lap.
