Chapter 6 - Sunday Dinner at Lisa’s
The dining room table at Aunt Lisa’s house had always been a battleground of loud voices, competing opinions, and Harold holding court at the head of the table. When we arrived on Sunday afternoon, the energy in the house was noticeably different—lighter, more cautious, but laced with an underlying current of relief.
As we walked in, Aunt Lisa met us at the door, wiping her hands on a floral kitchen towel. Her gaze flicked past me to my father, who stood a step behind holding a pie box from the local bakery.
“Apple walnut,” Dad announced, holding it out like a peace offering. “From the bakery on 4th Street. The one you like, Lisa.”
Lisa studied him for a long moment, then a small, knowing smile broke across her face. She took the box. “It better not be stale, Harold. Come on in; everyone’s already in the backyard.”
The backyard was set up with a long wooden picnic table surrounded by folding chairs. Uncle Ray was manning the grill, turning burgers and flipping chicken breasts with the focused intensity of a master chef. Cousin Deborah and Melissa were sitting near the patio umbrella, chatting quietly about school registration and local community events.
When Dad and I walked out onto the grass, the conversation dipped for a split second. Uncle Ray turned off the gas burners for a moment, pointing his spatula directly at my father.
“Harold,” Ray called out, his tone half-joking, half-serious. “I hear you’ve taken up astronomy.”
Dad gave a self-conscious shrug, running a hand through his thinning gray hair. “Turns out there’s a lot out there I haven’t been paying attention to.”
The tension in the air dissolved into general laughter. It wasn't the forced, polite laughter of a strained family gathering; it was warm and real. Emma, who had been sitting near the back fence playing a mobile game, looked up as Noah ran past chasing a soccer ball. She hesitated, then walked over to where Noah was standing by the garden beds.
I watched from the patio as Emma pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket and handed it to my son.
“What’s that?” I asked softly as I walked over with a glass of iced tea.
Noah unfolded the paper. It was a drawing of a telescope pointing at a cluster of stars, signed in colorful marker: To Noah, from Emma. Sorry about the money thing.
May you like
Noah looked up, grinned, and pulled a small trading card from his pocket—his favorite rare holographic space card—and handed it to her. “You can keep this. It’s worth like five bucks.”
Emma beamed, carefully sliding the card into her pocket. The ghost of the awkward tension from the birthday party vanished completely.
