Chapter 2: Blood, Money, and Broken Plates

It was Grandpa’s 80th birthday—a rare chance for the whole extended family to cram into the house. Natalie came along, dressed up a little in a soft blue dress, clutching the vitamin bottle like a shield. Her knuckles were white around the bottle, and she kept glancing at the family photos on the mantle, searching for a friendly face.

Grandpa’s living room, usually filled with the quiet click of his old TV and the sweet smell of peppermint, was now alive with laughter and the clatter of serving dishes. I hoped for a peaceful reunion, everyone just chatting and catching up. But as soon as we sat at that battered oak table, tension was already crackling beneath the surface.

The battered oak table was littered with casserole dishes, half-empty Coke cans, and a big bowl of potato salad sweating in the heat. The cousins sized up each other’s outfits, the uncles swapped fishing trip stories, and the younger kids ran screaming through the hallway. For a second, I almost believed it would be just another loud, ordinary family dinner.

Then my cousin’s wife gave Natalie a long, slow once-over before announcing in a mocking tone, "Oh, look at Derek’s girlfriend—she’s so delicate, I bet she’d faint before the vows."

Her voice was sharp and practiced. Natalie stiffened, face turning even paler. The room hushed for a moment as my cousin’s wife pursed her lips, smirked, and shot Derek a look, fishing for an audience. Relatives snickered into their drinks, others looked away, pretending not to notice. Natalie tried to smile politely, but her fingers drummed anxiously on the tablecloth.

I was chatting nearby and didn’t catch the full weight of it, so I just tossed out, "Yeah, that’s why we’re not holding a big ceremony at home. We’re going to Savannah for a destination wedding."

I said it as casually as possible, hoping to change the subject. But the word "Savannah" hung in the air like a dare. Someone whistled from the far end; Aunt Peggy murmured, "So fancy!"—and I couldn’t tell if she meant it or not.

Natalie and I both hate hassle. Just thinking about all the traditional wedding rituals gives us a headache. So once we set the date, we agreed: let’s have a destination wedding, bring both sets of parents, keep it simple, and enjoy a vacation together.

We’d spent nights scrolling photos of moss-draped oaks and sunlit squares, dreaming of exchanging vows in the Georgia breeze. No garter toss, no chicken dance, no drunken speeches. Just us, our parents, and the city we fell in love with on our last road trip.

Both sets of parents were all in. The wedding planner, hotel, everything was booked. We just had to wait two more months.

Our moms swapped Pinterest boards, Dad was secretly excited to golf at one of Savannah’s historic courses. It felt like everyone we cared about was happy for us—until now.

After I said this, Derek’s wife looked stunned, but Derek snapped his head up from his phone: "A destination wedding? What do you mean?"

His thumbs hovered over his screen, like he was about to Google it. His eyebrows shot up as if I’d suggested getting married on the moon.

I realized destination weddings weren’t common here—maybe he didn’t get it. I pulled up the Savannah company’s brochure to show him: Spanish moss, riverside views, shrimp and grits on the menu. Maybe some visuals would help.

But before I could say a word, Derek frowned and barked: "No need to explain! I know what a destination wedding is!"

He spat the words out like they tasted bad, and everyone stiffened. Aunt Lorraine gave a tight-lipped side-eye from across the table, not about to get involved.

I tried to add something, but he cut me off: "Don’t give me that. I just want to know—are you doing the first-look at home or not? Are your fiancée’s bridesmaids coming or not?"

He sounded almost panicked, as if skipping a first-look would break the universe. The room went so quiet, I could hear the overhead lights buzzing and someone’s fork scraping a plate.

I was baffled: "Since it’s a destination wedding, of course there won’t be a first-look at home, and there won’t be any bridesmaids either."

The words slipped out before I could soften them. Natalie squeezed my hand under the table, grateful, but Derek’s face twisted like he’d bitten a lemon.

That one sentence set him off. He slammed the table and stood up. Plates rattled, glasses nearly tipped, even the kids stopped their tag game.

"I’m telling you, I do not agree!"

His face was red, veins bulging in his neck. It was the look he got when someone changed the TV channel during the game.

"If you have a destination wedding, what about my buddies?"

He said it like he was genuinely wounded, as if his friends—guys who’d never texted me—deserved front-row seats.

Natalie looked at me, her mouth open in shock. I could see her counting to ten in her head, the way she did when her own family drama blew up. I forced a tight smile, sweat prickling down my back.

It’s our wedding. We agree, both sets of parents agree, but he doesn’t? Who does he think he is?

I caught my reflection in the glass-fronted china cabinet. I looked older, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. This wasn’t how I pictured celebrating Grandpa’s birthday—or talking about my future with Natalie.

Growing up, Derek used to bully me. After I moved to the city in elementary school, we only saw each other at Thanksgiving or Christmas. There’s not much love lost. And what does my wedding have to do with his buddies?

My mind replayed every childhood prank, every stolen Halloween candy, every time he made me cry in front of everyone. I realized I’d been dreading this confrontation since we sent the wedding announcement.

Derek made such a scene that the whole room quieted. Even the twins stopped arguing over fried chicken. The silence was thick, like the air before a storm.

My dad, who’d been chatting with relatives, tried to smooth things over. He invited everyone to eat and quietly scolded Derek: "Derek, all the relatives are here and so is Grandpa. Watch your manners."

Dad’s voice was steady, but there was a warning edge to it. He poured himself a glass of sweet tea, trying to bring things back to normal, even though everyone knew normal had left the building.

"Aubrey discussed the destination wedding with us. Your Aunt Sarah and I both agreed—it’s already settled."

He glanced my way for reassurance, offering a half-smile as if to say, "Hang in there, kiddo."

"Alright, let’s not talk about this anymore. Sit down and eat."

Dad was clearly trying to keep the peace, but Derek just rolled his eyes, muttering about "city people." He didn’t touch the casserole, arms crossed like a bratty kid.

"Settled? Hah."

He sneered at my dad: "Uncle Mike, your family is so well-off. Aubrey and his fiancée make six figures a year, but all they care about is spending money on themselves, not throwing a party for us relatives!"

The accusation stung for its pettiness. I glanced at Natalie, who looked mortified. We were suddenly on trial for crimes against the extended family.

"Make a bit of money and suddenly you look down on us poor relatives, huh? Uncle Mike, you’re just looking down on me and the rest of the family."

He looked around: "Am I right, everyone?"

There was an awkward shuffle of feet, some relatives stared at their plates, while a few, wanting to avoid the fallout, gave reluctant nods. My mother’s patience was wearing thin across the table.

One of the older uncles let out a low whistle, but nobody wanted to be the first to step in. A couple of cousins exchanged glances, probably thinking, "Better Derek than me."

Seeing this, Derek puffed up and waved his hand: "Aubrey, let me tell you, you have to host us at your wedding, and it better be top-shelf whiskey and premium cigars. I don’t care for this cheap bourbon today at all."

He motioned to the half-empty bottle on the table, like a king passing judgment. For a second, I wanted to laugh—if it wasn’t my reputation on the line.

In my family, it’s always been about appearances—what you bring to the table, literally and figuratively. Derek knew exactly which buttons to push.

So that’s what this is really about.

I felt a bitter chuckle rise in my chest. Suddenly, all the self-righteousness faded, and I saw it for what it was: just another shakedown dressed up as tradition.

My cousin’s family loves to freeload. Over the years, my family has covered all of Grandpa’s living and medical expenses. My uncle even quietly siphons off some of Grandpa’s money for himself.

Mom once caught Uncle Bill skimming cash from Grandpa’s dresser, but Dad always said, “Family comes first,” even when it clearly didn’t.

This time, for Grandpa’s birthday, my family paid for everything, but Derek invited a bunch of distant relatives and neighbors, treating them to food and drink—never mentioning we were footing the bill.

I’d watched Derek slap backs and shake hands at the door, collecting compliments like party favors, never once pointing to us—the real hosts. Natalie noticed too, her eyes narrowing as she realized we were funding someone else’s popularity contest.

Just now, I saw him sneaking several bottles of whiskey into his wife’s purse.

She fumbled with her oversized tote, trying to slip bottles between layers of tissue paper. Maybe they’d resell them at Derek’s next poker night.

My dad always thinks my uncle’s family is struggling, so he turns a blind eye—he even sets aside extra in Grandpa’s living expenses for Uncle to take, and helped Derek buy a car and a house.

I never understood Dad’s generosity, especially since we’d spent so many years pinching pennies ourselves. But that’s just how he is—hoping, maybe, that one day it would come back around.

But now, Derek was still sneering at me, and the whole room was silent. Dad’s face darkened.

The skin around Dad’s eyes tightened, the way it did when he was about to lose his cool at work. Even Natalie, usually unflappable, sat up a little straighter.

I swallowed my frustration and tried to keep calm: "Cousin, you really don’t need to worry about this."

I forced a smile, hoping to cut through the tension. My hands were sweating under the table, but I kept my voice light, even as I felt everyone’s eyes on me.

"We’re having a big cookout when we get back—burgers, brisket, the works. There’ll be gift cards for everyone, and yeah, top-shelf whiskey if that’s what you want. The venue’s booked, the gift cards are ready. We’ve even got extra gifts lined up for everyone. It’s not about tradition or red envelopes—around here, a Visa gift card says thank you just fine. We’d never disrespect any elders or relatives."

I made a mental note to add a few more gift cards to the stack in my desk drawer. Natalie reached over and squeezed my knee, silently reminding me that we were in this together.

When I discussed the destination wedding with my parents, Dad hesitated at first, but once he heard we’d hold a thank-you dinner, he was relieved and happily agreed.

I remembered Dad’s words: "As long as you don’t forget the folks back home, son, do what makes you and Natalie happy."

After I said this, the relatives’ faces relaxed. The tension slowly melted; someone started passing the bread basket again. Aunt Lorraine smiled and finally poured herself a glass of wine, looking genuinely relieved.

Over the years, my family has always helped out the relatives back home, never missing a gift or a card. Someone spoke up for us:

Uncle Joe, in his slow southern drawl, piped up: "Come on, Derek, Mike’s family never forgot us."

"Alright, Derek, didn’t Uncle Mike’s family say there’ll be a thank-you dinner? They’re just skipping the ceremony—they’re not skipping any of the etiquette."

Aunt Peggy nodded, adding, "That’s right, new things should be done in new ways. I think any form is fine, as long as the young couple is happy. Don’t meddle too much."

"Yeah, you said they should host, and they said they will. Let’s eat—today’s Grandpa’s birthday, don’t upset the old man."

Someone at the end of the table clapped, breaking the last bit of tension. For a moment, it seemed like the storm had passed.

My cousin’s demands were met, the relatives voiced support, and it seemed like if he just sat down, it would be over.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. Even Natalie managed a tiny smile, relaxing just a bit as dessert plates started making their rounds.

But unexpectedly, Derek’s face got even uglier. He had no intention of sitting down, but also couldn’t find anything else to say. Derek’s eyes darted around, searching for someone to take his side. When no one did, he doubled down, stubborn as ever.

He glared at me for a while, then suddenly slapped the table again—the second slap even louder, a last-ditch power move. The twins jumped in their seats, wide-eyed.

"That’s not good enough! Aubrey, you’d better hold the ceremony at home!"

His voice cracked with frustration. I could see a vein pulsing in his temple as he pointed an accusing finger my way.

"Even if these relatives don’t mind, did my dad and Grandpa agree? Did I agree?"

He was grasping at straws, trying to pull authority from thin air. The audacity almost made me laugh.

"Is your wedding just your family’s business? What your uncle and aunt say doesn’t count."

I saw Mom tense across the table, but she bit her tongue, not wanting to escalate things further.

"Our family’s always done things the right way. You think you’re too good for tradition now?"

The words sounded almost rehearsed, like he’d been saving this speech for years, waiting for the right moment to drag out the Parker family legacy.

He ignored Dad’s attempts to interrupt and looked straight at Uncle Bill, who hadn’t spoken: "Dad, am I right?"

Uncle Bill, arms folded tight, finally broke his silence. He exchanged a glance with Derek, and I could almost hear the silent agreement between them.

Here we go again—the family power dynamics, old-school tradition, disrespecting your roots. What era does he think this is? Am I planning a destination wedding or burning down the Parker family homestead?

I glanced at Natalie, who rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck. She mouthed, "Is this for real?" and I had to fight back a smirk.

Uncle Bill looked at my dad with a fake smile: "That’s right, Mike. Derek’s right. You can’t just ignore what your big brother and dad say, can you?"

His voice dripped with condescension, like he was handing out wisdom instead of piling on guilt.

He looked at Grandpa: "Dad, what do you think?"

Every eye in the room turned toward Grandpa, who was busy stirring his coffee, pretending he hadn’t heard a word. But there was no escaping now.

Dad sat up straighter, hands folded on the table, waiting for the verdict he’d always tried to earn.

Grandpa slowly put down his cup, cleared his throat, and looked at my dad with displeasure: "Mike, how did I raise you? You have to listen to your big brother—he’s the eldest son of our family."

His voice was gravelly, weighed down by decades of tradition and old resentments. The disappointment in his eyes stung more than any words.

He snorted: "All these years, you’ve been living it up in the city. What’s the use of giving me that little bit of money? It’s not as good as your brother and Derek being loyal by my side. You make all that money, but you don’t even buy Derek a house or a car. All you care about is your own wife and kid. You don’t know your place. I really raised you for nothing."

The words were a punch to the gut—years of support and sacrifice dismissed like loose change. Mom quietly dabbed her eyes with a napkin, her shoulders shaking.

"Alright, there are too many people here today. I don’t feel like lecturing you. Aubrey’s wedding will be done as Derek says."

The final word landed with the weight of a gavel. Dad stared down at his plate, his shoulders caving in like he’d just lost the final round. I’d never seen him look so small.

The hope in Dad’s eyes faded. After all those years of swallowing his pride, spending money and effort, all he got was, "I raised you for nothing."

Dad’s knuckles whitened around his glass, and for a moment, I wanted nothing more than to grab his hand and tell him none of it was his fault. But the words wouldn’t come.

A mix of emotions welled up inside me—heartbreak, anger, and a burning sense of injustice. My chest tightened, a thousand comebacks on the tip of my tongue. I felt like a kid again—helpless, cornered, but with a grown-up’s sense of just how wrong this was.

Fine. Since it’s come to this, even if my dad still wants to endure, I’m done putting up with it.

The old rules didn’t matter anymore. I was tired of pretending, tired of swallowing my pride. Natalie squeezed my hand, and I knew she felt it too.

Endure for what?

With so many people here, it’s the perfect time to settle old and new scores!

The thought pulsed in my brain like a dare. If not now, when?

I forced down my anger, turned, and gently patted Natalie’s hand: "You should go home first, or go out for a nice meal, maybe catch a movie. It’s going to get loud here, and I don’t want you to get upset."

Natalie blinked back tears, her chin lifting as if daring anyone to challenge her worth. She hesitated, torn between supporting me and escaping the madness. She opened her mouth to reply, but before she could—

My cousin’s wife across the table let out a shrill, mocking laugh: "Oh my, look at Aubrey’s precious girlfriend—can’t even take a few words from the relatives. People might think you married a princess! What good fortune, we can’t compare~"

She trilled the last words in a singsong, like a playground taunt. Natalie flushed, but held her head high, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a reaction.

I replied calmly, with a smile:

I looked at her and her two daughters, chuckled, and said, "That’s right, she is precious. She can’t stand being spoken to harshly, can’t tolerate being wronged. If anyone upsets her in front of me, I don’t care who they are or how close the family is—I won’t stand for it."

The words felt good, solid, like finally drawing a line in the sand. A couple of cousins exchanged glances, surprised at the firmness in my voice.

As I spoke, I smiled, picked up the steel bottle opener in front of me, and tossed it onto the middle of the table, my gaze sweeping from my cousin’s wife to my cousin and the others.

My heart hammered in my chest, but my hands didn’t shake. The gesture was deliberate—enough to make a statement, not to threaten. I wanted them to know I was done being the family punching bag.

The bottle opener clattered across the table, the sound ringing out like a warning shot. For the first time, nobody said a word. Not even Grandpa.

She shrank back in her chair, lips pressed together so tightly they nearly disappeared. Her daughters stared at me, caught between awe and fear.

But my uncle was displeased and turned his fire on my dad: "Mike, is this how you raised him? Your brother and our dad are both here, and he’s smashing things. Who’s he trying to impress? Is this how an unruly, disrespectful kid acts? If you won’t discipline him, I will!"

His voice grew louder with every word, hoping to shame Dad back into submission. But Dad just looked at his plate, jaw clenched tight.

Oh, so when Derek slapped the table and cursed, you turned a blind eye, but when I toss a bottle opener, you want to come down hard?

I caught Derek’s eye, daring him to challenge me again. The silence hung heavy, thick with unsaid words and old resentments.

You want to discipline me? Fine, let’s go head to head.

Before my dad could speak, I cut in directly: "Oh right, Uncle, you’re the most loyal, the most dutiful. When Grandma was sick, you didn’t care. When she died, the first thing you did was grab her wedding ring. All these years, you haven’t paid a cent for Grandpa’s medical bills. My dad gives him $1,200 a month for living expenses, and you secretly take $1,100 of it. Not paying is one thing—when Grandpa had a fever, you didn’t even cook him a meal. You nearly starved your own father to death. You’re so loyal, Uncle—who in this room could possibly compare?"

My voice was calm, even, but every word landed like a stone. The room erupted into shocked whispers. A few of the cousins covered their mouths, and the older aunts traded wide-eyed glances.

Uncle’s face turned green on the spot. His lips worked, searching for a comeback, but nothing came out. He glared at me, but for once, his eyes didn’t hold their usual authority.

Most of the relatives didn’t know about this, and immediately started whispering to each other, gossiping like a flock of onlookers.

The buzz of voices rose—half whispers, half gasps. A couple of the younger cousins shot me grateful looks, as if I’d said what they’d always wanted to.

"Enough! You little punk!"

Uncle’s shout cut through the noise, but it felt desperate, hollow. The old hierarchy had finally cracked.

Amid the growing commotion, Grandpa finally couldn’t sit still.

He banged his cane on the floor, demanding silence. Everyone fell still, the air charged with anticipation.

He stood up, picked up his cane, and swung it at me, his eyes wide with rage: "Ill-mannered brat! How dare you talk to your uncle like that! It’s only right for your dad to be loyal and give me money—I’m his father! I can give the money to whoever I want. What right do you have to criticize? Just because you gave me a little money, you think you can run your uncle down in front of everyone? You’re really gutless!"

His words echoed off the walls, but for the first time, I didn’t shrink back. I met his glare head-on, unafraid, feeling the support of Natalie’s steady hand in mine.

Fine. Uncle is his precious son, and I’m just the little punk my dad raised. My family pays the money...