Chapter 5: The Coldest Goodbye

Grandpa and Dad, though, acted like it was the best thing ever.

They ate in silence, chewing slowly, savoring every bite.

Grandpa’s eyes gleamed, and Dad’s jaw worked furiously, like he was trying to swallow something bigger than food.

Seeing Mom and me not eating, Grandpa sneered:

"Yeah, it’s a bit tough, old bones are hard to chew, but it’s real good."

A beat.

"Women just don’t know how to enjoy a blessing!"

His words cut deep, and Mom’s lips pressed into a thin line. She didn’t argue, just pushed her bowl away and stood up, shoulders squared.

My brother complained it was too hot, hopping around, while Dad silently ate, eyes glazed, like he was somewhere else.

Eli blew on his spoon, then slurped the broth, burning his tongue.

Dad just stared at his plate, lost in thought, chewing long after the food was gone.

Grandpa picked up the sheep’s stomach, pulled out the chicken drumstick inside, and handed it to my brother:

"Eli, everything Grandpa does is for you!"

The words sounded rehearsed, almost like a prayer.

Eli grinned, grease shining on his chin, and snatched the drumstick like it was a prize.

My brother’s eyes went blank at the sight of the drumstick. He grabbed it and tore into it, not even caring about the heat.

He ate with both hands, tearing off chunks of meat, juice running down his arms.

For a moment, he looked wild, almost animal.

I stood next to him, suddenly smelling that same familiar scent from the drumstick. After Eli finished, he tossed the bone on the ground, and I secretly picked it up and hid it in my pocket, feeling like there was something strange about it.

The bone was warm, slick with fat.

I closed my fingers around it, shivering. It felt heavier than it should have, like it was holding a secret.

Just as we were eating, my uncle showed up.

He stomped snow off his boots, face pinched and pale. The air seemed to tighten around him, the way it does before a storm.

He carried a chipped cleaver, his face cold, eyes a little wild.

His coat was splattered with something dark, and his hands shook as he set the cleaver on the table.

Nobody said a word.

Grandpa stood up and asked what he wanted.

His voice was calm, almost bored.

But there was an edge to it, like he was daring Uncle to start something.

He raised the bloody cleaver, voice hoarse:

"Can’t chop anymore, came to borrow yours."

His words were clipped, each one heavier than the last. The room felt colder, the shadows deeper.

Maybe it was the smell of stew that drew him. Uncle stepped closer, staring at the pot, a sly smile on his face:

"You move fast!"

His eyes darted from the pot to Grandpa, then back again.

The corners of his mouth twitched, like he was in on some private joke.

Then his eyes turned to Mom and me, and he said, almost taunting:

"You’re not afraid of trouble. Like me, kill two at once—works even better."

A pause.

"My son Sam now remembers everything, recites poems, knows all sorts of trivia."

A beat.