Chapter 5: Exposed

Under the table, my hand clenched into a fist.

I could feel my nails digging into my palm, blood thrumming in my ears. The urge to snap back, to say something—anything—was almost overwhelming.

My mom pressed my hand and shook her head, silently telling me to let it go. She squeezed my hand under the table and whispered, "Let it go, honey. It’s not worth it."

My uncle and aunt had their child late in life, and they doted on him endlessly—spoiling him rotten.

He was their miracle baby, the answer to years of prayers and fertility appointments. They treated him like a prince, never letting anyone—or anything—get in his way.

He’s been a handful since diapers. Around here, we call that a little hellion—always finding new ways to make everyone crazy.

The kind of kid who once stuck gum under the pews at church and then blamed the minister’s daughter for it. Everyone knew his name, and not in a good way.

When he was little, wherever my uncle and aunt took him, he’d cry and throw tantrums until they went home.

He could scream for hours—pitch-perfect wails that made your ears ring. My aunt would scoop him up, apologizing to everyone but never actually disciplining him.

If anyone said anything, my aunt would get defensive, insisting all kids are like that.

"He’s just spirited!" she’d say, as if that excused everything from biting the neighbor’s dog to dumping sugar in the fish tank.

When my cousin got a bit older, whenever we visited my uncle’s house, he’d chase us around with a broomstick, shouting, "Poor people, get out! Don’t come to my house! Poor people, get out!"

I still remember the sting, not just from the broom, but from the words themselves. Where did he even learn to talk like that? It was like he’d absorbed every snide comment ever whispered behind closed doors.

I wondered, what does a kid know about rich and poor? What kind of things does my uncle say about us behind our backs?

It’s not something you just pick up from cartoons. I caught my dad staring into his coffee after those visits, lost in thought.

But every time I asked my dad, he just sighed and shook his head.

He never said a word against his brother. Just gave me a sad smile, as if hoping things would magically get better if we waited long enough.

Because my cousin wouldn’t let us visit, my uncle’s family started coming to our house for Christmas.

It was less awkward, but more exhausting. My parents tried their best, but the holidays lost a little shine each year.

My parents would carefully prepare a table full of dishes every year, but my cousin would always ruin the ones he liked, never thinking of anyone else.

Last year, he dumped a whole bowl of cranberry sauce on the floor because he didn’t like the color. My mom laughed it off, but I saw her eyes water as she scrubbed the stain out of the carpet.

This year was even worse—now he likes to blow up my car with firecrackers.

Some families have ugly sweater competitions; ours has a demolition derby in the parking lot. Each Christmas, the stakes seem to get higher.

My patience was wearing thin.

I could feel the cracks forming, my nerves stretched thin as tinsel. I didn’t know how much more I could take.

But my parents are too soft-hearted. They always say relatives should get along and just put up with it.

To them, keeping the peace was worth any sacrifice, even if it meant patching tires and swallowing pride year after year.

I let out a long sigh and was just about to pick up some food—

My stomach grumbled, but my appetite had vanished. I reached for a roll, more out of habit than hunger.

Ding-dong-ding-dong—

A flurry of doorbell rings. The property management had arrived.

The urgent chime cut through the tension like a knife. Everyone froze, forks halfway to their mouths, as the next act of the family drama prepared to unfold.