Emily had sensed from the moment she woke up that the day would drain her. Early that morning, Michael had already begun bustling around the apartment, shifting chairs from one corner to another and counting plates as if they might magically multiply. Whenever his relatives visited, they never arrived alone—Laura with her husband Brian, Aunt Diane, and cousin Kevin with his wife. They came as a pack. And every single time, Emily felt less like the owner of the home and more like a temporary guest being politely tolerated.
“Maybe we could skip it this time?” she ventured quietly while chopping vegetables for the salad. “We could celebrate on our own. Just the three of us. Something peaceful.”
Michael didn’t even glance up from his newspaper. “Emily, come on. We always celebrate together. They’re family.”
Family, she echoed silently, bitterness rising in her chest. To him, perhaps. To her, they were people who treated her apartment as common property, her refrigerator as public storage, and her as if she were hired help.
At exactly two o’clock, the doorbell rang. Laura burst in first, as usual—loud, energetic, and entirely unrestrained. In her forties, with freshly dyed hair and a habit of speaking at full volume, she headed straight for the kitchen.
“Michael! Hi!” She kissed her brother’s cheek and immediately swung open the fridge door. “Oh wow, why is it so empty in here? Emily, where’s the cake? I assumed you’d baked something special.”
“It’s in a box on the table,” Emily replied evenly, spooning salad onto serving plates.
“Store-bought?” Laura wrinkled her nose. “Emily, you’ve got two hands. You could’ve made the effort.”
Brian followed her in—a short man with thinning hair and a permanently dissatisfied expression. Without greeting anyone properly, he walked into the living room, surveyed the furniture as if appraising it for resale, and dropped into an armchair.
“So, Michael, when are you replacing this couch?” he called out. “It’s completely sagging. You can barely sit on it.”
Aunt Diane arrived last. Thin, sharp-chinned, and armed with comments just as pointed, she carried herself like someone appointed to restore order to a chaotic world.
“Oh, Emily, dear,” she said, scanning the kitchen with a critical eye, “why doesn’t the sink shine? And these towels look gray. A woman’s home is her calling card, you know.”
Emily’s hands curled into fists, but she swallowed her response. Michael stepped up behind her and rested a hand on her shoulder—a gesture meant to soothe, yet somehow it only deepened her irritation.
“Mom, Aunt Diane, let’s sit down,” he said in a peacemaker’s tone. “Emily worked so hard. She made so many dishes.”
Once everyone settled at the table, what Emily privately labeled “the family tribunal” began. Laura scooped some salad onto her plate, tasted it, and instantly grimaced.
“It’s a little bland, don’t you think? Emily, don’t be shy with the salt. Men prefer stronger flavors. And it could use more mayo—it’s kind of dry.”
— “I was telling Michael just yesterday the same thing.”