Page 147 of Misery
My phone buzzes.
Text from my mom:
Family dinner tonight. Everyone. No excuses. 7 PM sharp.
"Family dinner," I tell him. "You're invited. Or commanded, knowing my mother."
"She doesn't hate me?"
"She's reserving judgment. But you saved Dad, so that bought you some grace. Plus, she knows this world. Knows judgment is a luxury we can't always afford."
We arrive at my childhood home just before seven.
The house looks the same as always—white siding, black shutters, perfectly maintained because Dad won't tolerate anything else.
But there's a security camera now, positioned to watch the driveway.
New locks on the door.
Subtle changes that speak to not-so-subtle threats.
The dining room is set with the good plates, the ones Mom only uses for holidays and when she's trying to pretend everything's normal.
The china with tiny roses around the rim.
She's even lit candles.
Not romantic candles—tall white pillars that smell like vanilla, like she’s trying to make this dinner mean something.
Dad's already at the table, his bandaged hand resting carefully on the placemat.
He's learned to eat with his right hand now, the left too damaged.
He nods when he sees us, a king acknowledging subjects.
Or maybe a father acknowledging the man fucking his daughter. Hard to tell with him.
"Oskar."
"Sir."
"Sit. Starla's making enough food for an army."
We sit, Oskar beside me, but not touching, giving me space while being close.
He's learning.
The chairs are the same ones from my childhood—dark wood, uncomfortable backs that force good posture.
I used to hate these chairs.
Now they feel like anchors to better times.
Helle arrives, looking more put together.
She's changed clothes, brushed her hair, put on makeup to hide the exhaustion.
She catches my eye—our secret sits between us like another dinner guest.
