Chapter 4: Dinner with Strangers

This family isn’t old-fashioned or strict. Dad’s idea of discipline was letting us stay up to watch Jeopardy, and Mom’s way of saying “no” was with an extra scoop of mashed potatoes. The room Mom prepared for me was about the same size as Caleb’s, but since I was sturdy as an ox, the adults’ attention naturally leaned toward the more delicate Caleb. I had a twin bed with a comforter covered in faded sunflowers, the kind that made me think of summers at Grandma’s. Caleb’s room had the same old pine furniture, though his shelves were lined with model trains and puzzle boxes instead of my stacks of old library paperbacks.

If I’d been the original Natalie, I’d probably resent this “abnormal” brother for stealing my parents’ affection. But as a grown-up who’d already gone numb after thirty years, like a supermarket stocker, I couldn’t care less about this harmless favoritism. It’s hard to feel jealous of a kid who flinches every time the phone rings, anyway.

At dinner, I ate heartily. Mom kept glancing at me, a trace of guilt in her eyes. She picked up a piece of pot roast and put it on my plate: “Natalie, eat more.” I could tell she was trying, in her own way, to make up for lost years. The whole table smelled like rosemary and warm bread, and the old oak clock on the wall ticked out the awkward seconds. Dad cleared his throat, but didn’t say anything. Caleb’s fork clinked against his plate, steady and careful.

I looked at the roast—half fat, half lean—and paused. “I don’t like this.”

It was true. I don’t eat fatty meat, only lean. I nudged it politely aside with my fork, not wanting to make a fuss, but not willing to force myself, either.

Hearing that, Mom’s face stiffened. She exchanged a look with Dad, who was silently eating, then awkwardly moved the roast from my plate to Caleb’s. He didn’t look up, but I noticed a flicker of relief as he tasted the fatty part. We all have our quirks, I guess.

Oh, so Caleb likes this stuff. Somehow, that small discovery felt like finding a hidden passage in an old house.

I was about to keep eating when the chat comments flashed again:

[What’s this supporting character up to now? That roast looks delicious! She must be doing it on purpose!]

[She’s just trying to get her parents’ attention. So competitive at such a young age—definitely the type to fight other women when she grows up.]

[So annoying! Why did the main guy’s parents have to have this sister?!]

I glanced at the comments and suddenly lost most of my appetite. After finishing the last few bites, I stood up: “I’m full. I’ll go back to my room.” I didn’t slam my fork or anything, just tried to slip out quietly, hoping no one would make a big deal out of it.

Seeing this, Mom half-rose from her seat: “Natalie—”

I stopped and looked back. At the table, the nearly forty-year-old woman’s eyes flickered. Her lips moved, like she wanted to say something, but in the end she just shook her head: “Go ahead.” For a moment, I caught a glimpse of the uncertainty in her face—the worry that I’d leave again, maybe for good this time.

I didn’t get it, but I put my plate in the dishwasher and went back to my room by myself. The house was quiet except for the soft hum of the dishwasher. I leaned against my bedroom door for a moment, listening to the muffled sounds of my family, then slid under the covers and let the day’s confusion settle around me. The sheets were cool against my skin, and somewhere down the hall, the pipes rattled as someone ran water.

Honestly, I’d expected things to be like this when I came home, so I didn’t really mind. I thought the night would just pass like that. After all, family drama seemed to come standard in our household—like chipped mugs and mismatched Christmas lights.

But unexpectedly, just as I finished my shower and was about to go to sleep, someone knocked on my door. I nearly tripped on my slippers getting to the door, thinking Mom was coming to offer an awkward goodnight.

I thought it was Mom, so I went to open it. But to my surprise—It was Caleb standing outside. He was still wearing his faded Star Wars t-shirt, hugging a spiral-bound notebook to his chest like a shield. The hallway light cast soft shadows on his face.

The boy stood awkwardly in the doorway, his dark eyes fixed on me.

“Hey, Caleb. What’s up? You okay?” I hesitated, asking. What could he want with me in the middle of the night? I pulled my robe tighter, suddenly self-conscious about my wet hair.

Hearing my question, his expression tensed. He quickly raised his hand and handed me a notebook with some writing on it. He avoided my gaze, almost holding his breath as he waited for my reaction.

I instinctively followed his motion and looked. When I saw what he’d written, I froze.

On the page was written—

Sis, what food do you like?

Tell me, I’ll remember them.

Next time, we’ll eat what you like.

His handwriting was careful, each letter pressed deep into the paper, as if he’d practiced the question a dozen times before daring to show me. Something inside me squeezed. No one had ever asked me that, not even Grandma.