When Jason’s mom lit a cheese candle as the starter during a “traditional” pre-wedding family dinner, I thought the evening couldn’t get any worse. But then she pulled out a manila envelope, and the real reason for the dinner made my stomach drop harder than the Jell-O mold. Gravel crunched under our feet as Jason and I stepped out of the car.
Diana’s house loomed ahead of us, all perfect white columns and manicured hydrangeas, like something out of a magazine spread. “There’s no tradition,” Jason muttered beside me, his voice low and tense. “I think she made it up.”
I gave him a small nod, kept my smile fixed, and straightened my back.
The front door swung open before we even knocked. Diana stood in the frame like she’d been waiting behind it, watching for us through the peephole. Her posture was regal, her blond hair swept up into a style that probably required a professional appointment.
She smiled like a crocodile. “Natalie, darling,” she cooed, her gaze sweeping over me from head to toe. “You look so comfortable.
That’s brave. Not everyone could pull off such a… practical look before a big event.”
I returned her smile.
“Thank you, Diana. You look exactly as I imagined.”
She blinked. Her smile dropped, but only for a moment, then she turned and gestured us inside.
The dining room looked like a theater set. Gleaming silver candlesticks marched down the center of the table. There were crystal water goblets with lace-trimmed linens tucked beneath them, and five different knives and forks at each place setting.
Jason’s aunts, uncles, and some of his cousins were already seated, their spines so straight they looked like they’d been trained by the military. Diana took her seat at the head of the table. “Let’s begin.”
The first course arrived, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep my expression neutral.
A tall, cylindrical block of bright yellow Velveeta cheese sat on a plate with a wick sticking out of the top like something you’d find at a gas station. While we stared at the cheese candle with wide eyes, Diana lit the wick. The top ignited with a small whoosh, and soon, thick orange cheese oozed down the sides like lava onto a plate of Ritz crackers below.
I glanced at Jason, seated beside me, and saw the corner of his mouth twitch. I ate some crackers, suppressed my laughter, and thought that would be the worst of it. The salad came next: a towering trifle dish filled with what looked like the remnants of a 1950s fever dream plucked straight from a Better Homes & Gardens nightmare edition.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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