Chapter 3 - The Confrontation
The mariachi music was still playing softly when I strode through the swinging kitchen door into the brightly lit living room.
The twenty-odd relatives stopped talking instantly. Glasses paused halfway to mouths. My mother, Teresa, spun around with a wide, arrogant smile on her face, holding a fresh glass of wine.
“Oh, Connor, darling!” Teresa trilled, sashaying over in her sequined dress. “You’re just in time! We were wondering where you slipped off to. Come say hello to your Aunt Betsy and Uncle Mark. They brought a wonderful gift for—why do you look like a thundercloud? Did something happen at work?”
I didn't answer her. I stood in the middle of the expensive hardwood floor she hadn't paid a single cent for, my work boots leaving muddy tracks across her pristine white rugs—rugs she had apparently decided gave her the right to act like a feudal baroness.
“Where is Amy?” Teresa demanded, her smile faltering slightly as she noticed my rigid posture and the dark glare in my eyes. “Why isn't she serving the appetizers? I told her explicitly that the shrimp wontons need to circulate every twenty minutes!”
“Amy and Frederick are in the truck,” I said, my voice cutting through the room like a circular saw. “And they are never stepping foot in this house with you ever again.”
Teresa scoffed, throwing her hands up in dramatic disbelief. She looked around at the assembled relatives, seeking their validation. “Did you hear him? The boy is delirious! His wife has brainwashed him into thinking she’s a delicate flower who can't lift a finger! Connor, listen to me right now—in this house, I make the rules. Your wife is only good for giving birth and washing dishes, and if she doesn't learn her place, I’ll straighten her out myself!”
“This isn't your house, Teresa,” I said, stepping closer to her.
A heavy, suffocating silence descended upon the room. The music stuttered and died.
Teresa crossed her arms, her face flushing an ugly, mottled red. “Don't you dare play games with me, boy! I gave birth to you! I raised you! And this house—this magnificent roof over your head—exists because I negotiated the purchase, I manage the mortgage, and I oversee the deeds! You wouldn't even have a pot to piss in if it weren't for me!”
Before I could respond, the wail of police sirens pierced the afternoon air.
Red and blue strobe lights began flashing violently through the large front windows, reflecting off the crystal chandeliers and casting eerie shadows across the terrified faces of my relatives.
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“What is that?!” Aunt Betsy shrieked, dropping her wine glass onto the carpet. “Are those cop cars?!”
“Teresa,” I said coldly, walking toward the front door to unlock it for the authorities. “You’re about to find out exactly whose house this really is.”
