Chapter 3 - The Folding Chair at the End of the Table
The Midlothian dining room looked like a stage set designed to humiliate me.
My parents had set the mahogany table for six people. There were five heavy wooden dining chairs, polished to a high gloss. And at the very end of the table, shoved awkwardly against the sideboard, sat a metal folding chair with a faded floral cushion tied to it with twine.
“We put you there so you’d have extra room for your belly, Emmy,” Eleanor said, her voice dripping with saccharine condescension as she carried out a platter of roasted potatoes.
Tobias, my brother-in-law, immediately stood up, looking deeply uncomfortable. “Here, Em, take my chair. You shouldn’t be sitting on that.”
“She’s fine right where she is, Tobias,” Raquel snapped, adjusting her napkin. “The folding chair has a cushion.”
I didn’t argue. I walked over and sat down. The metal legs of the folding chair sank deep into the thick wool carpet, placing me physically lower than everyone else at the table. I had to crane my neck slightly just to see my father’s face at the head of the table.
At exactly 6:12 p.m., a strange, heavy pressure wrapped around my lower back. I ignored it, focusing on cutting my roast beef.
At 6:37 p.m., it hit again—sharper, tighter, wrapping around my abdomen like a steel belt. I stopped chewing, counting the seconds in my head.
Eight minutes.
My contractions were officially eight minutes apart.
I set my fork down on the porcelain plate with a soft click. The sound seemed entirely too loud in the tense atmosphere of the dining room.
“I think I’m in labor,” I said, my voice steady, though my hands were trembling.
My father threw his head back and let out a loud, mocking laugh that rattled the chandelier crystals. “At my dinner table? Sit down, Emmy, stop acting up.”
Eleanor didn't even look up from slicing her meat. “If it were a real labor, you’d know. You're just reacting to the food.”
Then, she laughed right along with him. A cold, sharp, dismissive sound.
Dad reached across the table and grabbed the gravy boat. He looked directly at me, his eyes dead and mocking. “That’s not our grandchild, Emmy.”
Eleanor echoed him like a trained parrot, a cruel smirk twisting her lips. “That’s not our grandchild.”
Raquel actually snorted into her iced tea, shaking her head. Little Sawyer giggled because everyone else was laughing, banging his plastic spoon against his tray. Tobias tried to stand up to help me, but Raquel caught his sleeve with a sharp yank, hissing, “Sit down! She’s just being dramatic.”
Another contraction slammed into my body, far more intense than the last. The wave of pain stole the air right out of my lungs.
I stood up. The metal folding chair screeched loudly against the floorboards as it tipped backward, crashing onto the carpet behind me.
Dad didn't even flinch. He picked up his roll and buttered it. “Sit down and finish your dinner, Imagin. Don't make a scene.”
I didn't yell. I didn't cry. I turned my back on them and walked down the hallway.
My keys hung from the little brass bird-shaped hook near the front door. Right beside them was the hallway wall with its uniform black frames and the empty, pale rectangle where my college portrait used to hang.
May you like
Behind me, rising above the clatter of silverware, my mother’s voice called out one last time: “Call us when it’s real, Imagin! Stop being so dramatic!”
Nobody got up from the table. Nobody followed me to the door. Dad was asking Tobias to pass the buttered rolls as I pulled the front door shut behind me.
