"Nita has always been a heavy eater," my mother began. She was trying to excuse—no, disguise—the mountain of food disappearing from my plate. It was therapy. Food was my comfort, my warm quilt, my best friend who never judged. And tonight, surrounded by the looming shadow of a future I hadn't signed up for, I needed comfort in industrial quantities. I needed food hugs, and lots of them.
Mother leaned forward in her chair, her eyes darting toward the would-be in-laws. "She likes to make her own food," she added quickly, her manicured hand slicing the air as if this were an undeniable virtue. "Carefully and perfectly. So when she becomes your daughter-in-law…" she paused, smiled with her teeth but not her eyes, "…you'll need patience. Her cooking takes hours."
My fork hovered halfway to my mouth. I nearly dropped it. Excuse me? Did she just toss my entire future on the dinner table? My mother had not only placed the cart before the horse—she'd loaded the cart with groceries, lashed me to it, and sent me galloping toward a marriage I hadn't even interviewed for. I hadn't even seen the groom yet.
I paused mid-bite, slowly chewing, and then glanced at her with raised eyebrows that practically screamed: Are you serious right now?
She gave me that scowl—her trademark weapon of mass destruction.
'You see," I wanted to explain, 'this is how it always goes. She thought she was doing me a favor, shaping me into someone desirable. But the truth was—between us—I was the one doing them a favor. Or if I wanted to be less selfish about it, I was doing us a favor. Because really, who else was going to charm the groom with my dazzling personality, cushion all the awkward pauses, and carry this whole spectacle on my back? Certainly not Mom and her scowl.'
Mrs. Numero chuckled, the sound sharp and tinkling. "I'm surprised you have such a perfect figure, dear. How do you manage to stay in shape?" Her heavily ringed fingers tapped against the tablecloth, her diamond catching the light in deliberate flashes. I knew what she saw: a girl in a dress that almost fit the occasion, one my mother had handpicked with all the fever of a general choosing battle armor. The dress was lovely. But I had made zero effort to elevate it. No jewelry, no styled hair, no makeup beyond a dab of lip gloss. Why pretend to sparkle when you were being auctioned off?
"Fast metabolism, I guess," I replied lightly, reaching for my glass of water. I tried to make it sound casual. It was either that or confess the truth: that I ate my feelings by the plateful and the only reason I hadn't exploded was pure dumb luck. My fingers tightened around the glass as I lifted it, the coolness seeping into my skin. The crystal chimed faintly against my teeth as I drank, and I forced myself to hold her gaze for a second longer than was comfortable. If she wanted to test me, I could play the game.
Across the table, my father's gaze lingered on me. He sat too stiffly in his chair, shoulders square but tense, his wine untouched. When my eyes met his, the air between us tightened. I gave him a thin smile, one I'd practiced in the mirror over the years: the "Don't worry about me, I've got this" smile. A smile meant to comfort when I was anything but comfortable. His lips curved upwards in return, a twitch more than a smile, brittle at the edges.
It struck me then—how biblical this all felt. He was Abraham, leading his child Isaac to the altar. Except this altar was not made of stone. I was both the sacrifice and the offering platter. And the truly twisted part? I wasn't even kicking and screaming. I'd agreed to this arrangement. A willing sacrifice, yes—but willing only because resistance seemed futile. That was the real tragedy.
Mr. Numero, seated at the head of the long table, cleared his throat in that deliberate, old-school way that made everyone else pause mid-chew. "When did you say Junior would be arriving?" he asked. His salt-and-pepper hair was combed back immaculately, and though he hadn't spoken much since dinner began, I could tell he was a man used to being obeyed. There was steel in him, yes—but not the kind that scared me.
"For the fiftieth time, he said an hour ago," Mrs. Numero snapped, rolling her eyes so hard I feared they might stick. Her fork clattered against her plate. She leaned back in her chair, one manicured hand now drumming against the table. The rhythm of her fingers echoed her impatience. If appearances were currency, Mrs. Numero was rolling in wealth—perfect hair, perfect diamonds, perfect disdain.
"It's fine," my mother chimed in. "We're not in a hurry. Besides, Junior is taking over the company, isn't he? He must be busy." She added a smile to her words.
Trust my mother to leap to the defense of someone who didn't deserve it. I rolled my eyes so hard I thought they might detach and roll under the table. They might not be in a hurry, but I certainly was. The longer we sat here, the more the pressure mounted. We had been waiting—what—two hours now? Two hours of forced small talk, fake smiles.
"Don't make excuses for him, Becky," she snapped, her jeweled bracelets clinking as her hand cut through the air. "He's always been that way. Never listens to me, does whatever he wants. Since his sister passed, he's been utterly impossible!"
"Sweetie," Mr. Numero said gently, laying a broad, steady hand over hers. "Perhaps these aren't things Nita needs to hear right now." He held her gaze across the space between them, his thumb brushing the back of her knuckles. For all his stern presence and taciturn manner, there was no mistaking it—the man adored his wife. The love radiated off him, even as she bristled under his attempt to contain her. I almost envied it.