Chapter 2: The Golden Twin

"Are you blind? What are you standing around for? Get over here and serve the guests!"

My foot was throbbing, so I lingered too long by the kitchen door. Mom stormed over and slapped me hard, her rings digging crescent moons into my cheek. The metallic tang of blood mixed with the sweetness of frying onions. My ears rang from the slap, but I kept my head down. I wanted to disappear, to shrink so small I could slip through a crack in the kitchen tiles and never come back.

The smack echoed through the kitchen, sharp and mean. My vision went blurry, and I almost fell over.

The restaurant chatter dropped for a heartbeat, then picked up again with nervous laughter. Nobody at The Drunken Oak is surprised by much anymore.

Seeing this, Mom’s fury only burned hotter. She twisted my ear so hard I saw stars. "You’re always first to the table, but can’t do a damn thing when it counts."

Above the counter, my brother’s graduation photo beamed down—all cap and gown, perfect smile. I kept my eyes away.

"I swear, you two came from the same belly—so how’d I end up with a useless, crippled pig for a son?"

Crippled pig.

That cut deeper than any slap. My hands shook so bad I nearly dropped the tray.

Tears stung my eyes. I bit the inside of my cheek hard, swallowing the hurt.

She’s always had a sharp tongue, but somehow it never gets easier. I forced myself to breathe, fighting the urge to cry.

My brother and I are twins, but you’d never guess it.

People joked we were the before-and-after in a makeover show—my brother the golden boy, me the punchline.

He’s delicate, prettier than half the girls in town, with a face people actually envy.

He looks like he could model for Abercrombie, hair perfect, teeth straight. The local girls still sigh over him at the beauty salon.

Me? I’m so ugly I won’t even look in the mirror. I was born with a limp—just like Mom says, a crippled pig who only knows how to eat and can’t do anything right.

Dad blames a breech birth. Mom says it’s God’s punishment. Either way, I move slow and awkward, always catching my bad ankle on chairs.

"Mom, I’m sorry... I was wrong. Won’t happen again."

My voice was a ragged whisper, automatic as breathing.

The pain in my cheek didn’t matter. I blinked hard, forcing the tears back.

I’d rather eat dirt than let her see me cry. Learned that before I learned to tie my shoes.

"Get outta my sight! If you cost me a dime, I’ll skin you alive!"

She kicked me in the backside, her high heel making my whole leg go numb.

My knee buckled, but I caught myself on the prep counter. I bit my lip to keep from yelping.

I clenched my jaw and stayed silent—Mom hated my voice, said I sounded like a pig at the trough, snorting and grunting, just gross.

So at home, I barely spoke. Tried to be invisible, just a shadow in the kitchen.

I started walking on tiptoe, always careful, always quiet. Sometimes I’d watch TV and wish I could swap places with a sitcom kid for just one meal.

I picked up the maple tray, limping after Mom.

The tray was heavy, plates rattling as I moved. I could feel Mom’s glare burning through my back, waiting for me to mess up.

Mom is the prettiest woman in Maple Heights, with a figure that makes folks stare. When she walks, her waist sways like she owns the room.

She could’ve been Miss Georgia if life had turned out different. She wears perfume that smells like vanilla and old money, even though the kitchen air is thick with grease.

"Mr. Hawkins, so sorry to keep you waiting."

Her voice slid into a honeyed Southern drawl, sweet enough to make your teeth ache.

Her red pencil skirt hugged her curves just right—sexy as a music video.

Every man in the room sat up straighter when she walked in. Even the married ones.

In the main hall, a middle-aged man in a sharp suit, hair slicked back, sat tall at the biggest table.

He looked like a man used to being in charge—Rolex flashing under the chandelier, cell phone facedown by his plate.

To his right sat a thickset guy with a buzz cut—definitely a bodyguard.

His broad shoulders and stone-cold stare screamed security.

On his left, a woman in a crisp white suit, pretty and polished—probably his secretary.

She had eyes that missed nothing, a phone in one hand and a fancy pen in the other. Her nails were painted pale blue, sharp as ice.

"Please try this first. Drunken Pig Head will be up soon."

Mom shot me a look. I got it—set the tray down, arrange the dishes just right. My hands shook, but I fought to steady them, ignoring my limp.

"What’s this?" the man asked, eyeing the bowl of red liquid with rice grains floating on top.

He sounded skeptical, but curious. Even his bodyguard leaned in for a sniff.

"It’s red rice wine—my dad made it," I mumbled, my voice thick and nasal. I sneaked a glance at the secretary.

She kept her head down, maybe because my ugly mug turned her stomach.

Her perfume smelled like the fanciest laundry soap. I wondered if she noticed the ketchup on my apron.

Mom picked up a glass bowl and served him herself, hands moving with practiced grace.

"Mr. Hawkins, this is Derek’s newest creation. You’re the first to taste it," she purred.

When she smiled, she could stop traffic—dimples and all. Even the meanest old men at the VFW would tip their hats.

The staff was buzzing all week about this Hawkins guy. Mom had us scrubbing corners I didn’t know we had.

He had that campaign-ad voice—smooth, trustworthy, just a hint of power.

"Looks like I’m in for a treat today," he said.

He swirled the bowl, inspecting the color, then sipped. I held my breath, sweating.

Mom watched his face like a hawk.

If he so much as frowned, I’d be scrubbing pans for a week.

After a sip, Mr. Hawkins’ eyebrows shot up, then he drained the bowl in one gulp.

His cheeks flushed as the wine hit. He smacked his lips, grinning.

"Not bad."

He set the bowl down, his eyes brightening.

The secretary jotted something in her planner. I felt a flicker of hope.

"Another bowl."

Mom’s smile got even wider. She poured him another, her voice cheery as a game show host. "Right away!"

I hovered behind her, sneaking looks at the secretary.

Her hair was pulled tight, glasses perched on her nose. I wondered if she’d ever look at me—really see me.

She was gorgeous.

Are all city girls like this?

Probably not, but I liked to dream. Maybe in college, you meet girls who don’t care about a limp.

If I looked half as good as my brother—or even a third—maybe folks wouldn’t look at me like I was a stray dog.

Maybe I could go to college. See the world.

Sometimes I’d trace the glossy college brochures that came for my brother, wishing my name was on them instead.

Before the SATs, Mom said my face would only disgust people. She made me quit and help at the restaurant, while my brother took the exam. She ripped up my practice test in front of me. I still remember the way my heart clenched.

Even though my grades were better than his…

I never told anyone. Not even Grandma.

"Not bad, really not bad. Derek, you’ve opened my eyes."

Mr. Hawkins finished the wine, his face flushed, lips stained red like a vampire after a feast.

He wiped his mouth, still grinning. The secretary shot him a wary look, like she was afraid he’d ask for a third round.

"When’s the Drunken Pig Head ready? I can’t wait."

He set his phone aside, leaning in like a kid waiting for cake.

"Soon, very soon! I’ll check in the kitchen. Caleb, you watch the guests."

As she left, Mom shot me a glare.

One second all smiles, the next ice cold. I shuffled my feet, trying not to let my limp show.

"What’s your name?" Mr. Hawkins asked. He didn’t seem fazed by my looks, just watched me with those deep, sharp eyes.

I nearly choked. "I... I’m Caleb Liu."

He nodded. "Derek’s boy?"

I grunted.

"Only son?"

"N-no, I have a brother. He’s at college," I managed.

He smiled, slid me a business card—gold lettering, Chairman of Hawkins Biotech Group. I tucked it in my pocket, scared Mom would see.

Soon, Dad strode in from the kitchen, chef’s coat spotless, hat straight, sweat beading his brow.

"Mr. Hawkins, it’s an honor."

Dad’s hand trembled just a little as he poured the tea, but he kept his voice steady. He shook Hawkins’ hand, making small talk. Uncle Jeff swaggered in, lugging a huge copper pot, arms straining, T-shirt dark with sweat.

Uncle Jeff is Mom’s little brother. Used to be wild, but after Dad opened the restaurant, he came to learn the trade.

He always smells like cheap cologne and cigarette smoke.

"Dish—up!" he barked, making a show of lifting the lid. Steam billowed out, filling the room with whiskey and pork, turning heads everywhere.

The whole place went quiet, the smell making everyone’s stomachs rumble.

As the steam cleared, a caramel-colored pig head floated in rich broth. Mr. Hawkins grinned, "Derek, you got a gift. That pig must’ve died smiling."

He snapped a photo, probably to brag later.

I leaned in, my glasses fogging. The pig’s lips curled up, almost like it was in on some private joke—the kind you only hear in a small town at midnight.

"All living things got a spirit. This one knew Mr. Hawkins was coming, so it offered itself up," Dad said, laying it on thick. Uncle Jeff winked at me behind the pot.

Mom and Uncle Jeff chimed in, talking up fate, the pig’s specialness, the purity of the meat. It sounded like a late-night TV pitch.

Mr. Hawkins was thrilled, had his secretary Venmo the payment right away. The phone chimed. The mood in the hall soared. Even the pig in the pot looked happy—for a moment, it felt like we were all in this together.