“That’s me,” I replied, offering my hand. “And this is my son Will. Happy Thanksgiving.”
He shook my hand limply, as if poverty might be contagious.
Marta’s eyes flicked over my worn jacket and scuffed shoes.
“Come in,” she said stiffly. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
The next three days felt like psychological warfare disguised as holiday hospitality.
Every remark from Marta was a carefully aimed dart.
“Eddy comes from a very particular background, Sam. Her husband will need to provide a certain lifestyle.”
Every question from Farlow felt like an interrogation.
“What do you do for work, Sam?”
“Where do you live?”
“What exactly does Will plan to do after graduation?”
I bit my tongue so hard I tasted blood.
During dinner, Will squeezed my arm under the table.
“Stay strong, Dad,” he whispered.
Eddy looked miserable. She kept trying to steer the conversations away from money and status, but her parents always circled back.
Like sharks smelling blood.
On the third night, Farlow cornered me in his study.
“I’ll be blunt, Sam,” he said, swirling whiskey in a crystal glass. “Eddy is our only daughter. We’ve worked hard to give her opportunities. Naturally we’re… concerned.”
“Concerned about what?” I asked calmly.
“Whether your son can provide for her. Whether he’s… suitable.”
My fists tightened.
