The Sunday Lunch Ultimatum
The migraine had started somewhere between the interstate off-ramp and the driveway of my parents’ house. It wasn’t just a headache. It was a rhythmic thumping behind my left eye, a physical manifestation of the dread I felt every single Sunday.
I sat in my car for a moment, the engine ticking as it cooled. My hands were gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles had turned the color of old parchment.
I was 34 years old, a senior logistics manager for a national shipping firm, and yet parking in this driveway reduced me to a trembling, anxious child.
I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror. I looked pale. It had been three weeks since the doctor told me my cortisol levels were catastrophic, and two weeks since I had battled through a nasty bout of bronchitis that still left me winded.
I was physically depleted, operating on caffeine and sheer willpower.
I needed rest. I needed silence.
What I didn’t need was Sunday lunch with the family.
“Pull it together, Mabel,” I whispered to myself. “Two hours. Eat the roast. Nod at Dad’s rants. Ignore Jason and leave.”
I stepped out of the car. The air smelled of impending rain and the heavy, cloying scent of my mother’s pot roast wafting from the kitchen window.
When I opened the front door, the volume of the television hit me like a physical blow. A football game was blaring at maximum volume.
“Mabel, is that you?”
My mother’s voice cut through the noise, shrill and demanding.
“It’s me, Mom,” I called out, hanging my coat on the rack.
I noticed Jason’s leather jacket, an exorbitant purchase he definitely couldn’t afford, slung carelessly over the banister. It slipped as I walked by, falling to the floor. I left it there.
I walked into the living room. My father, Robert, was reclined in his armchair, a beer already in hand despite it being barely noon. He didn’t look up.
My brother Jason was sprawled on the sofa, scrolling through his phone, looking the picture of relaxation.
“Hey, nice of you to show up,” Jason said without looking away from his screen. “We’re starving.”
“I’m on time, Jason. Exactly noon.”
“You look like hell,” my father grunted, finally glancing over. “Work running you ragged again.”
“I’m recovering from bronchitis, Dad. I told you that on the phone.”
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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