Chapter 1 - The Christmas Dinner
Christmas evening, rubbing warmth back into my fingers, and she examined the oak stain caught around my nails as though I had brought something contagious into the house.
“You could have worn a blazer, Gideon. We have guests coming later.”
I had spent fourteen hours working and thirty minutes scrubbing in a gas station bathroom. My shirt was clean. My boots were the only pair I owned. Still, I tucked my hands into my pockets and apologized, because that was what I did when my mother sounded disappointed.
Two blocks away, my Ford Transit sat under a streetlight with everything I owned inside it. I had parked out of sight so its rust wouldn’t spoil the photographs. Its heater had been broken for weeks, and before walking over, I had watched my breath collect against the windshield.
Inside, silk napkins stood upright beside polished plates. My mother, Beatrice, had spent three days arranging that dinner. My father, Alistair, wore a watch that flashed whenever he moved his arm. Julian stood by the fireplace in a three-thousand-dollar suit, holding his drink by the rim.
Grandfather had started our family’s fortune with one delivery truck. Dad liked to tell that part of the story, then hurry past the decades of sweat that had followed it.
“There he is,” Dad said, clapping my shoulder hard enough to move me forward. “Our birdhouse builder.”
He glanced around for an audience. Julian smiled into his glass. At twenty-eight, I designed furniture and built custom cabinetry, but in that room I was still a boy being asked to laugh at his own expense.
I stayed because Christmas had a way of making the bargain sound reasonable: perhaps this year, if I asked for nothing and caused no trouble, they would be glad I had come.
I had been making that bargain since I was eighteen, when an acceptance letter arrived for an architectural design and fine woodworking program. I had worked three jobs through high school to cover application fees. That envelope felt like permission to become the person I wanted to be.
My parents barely looked up when I brought it into the kitchen. Mom said we needed to discuss my college fund. There was nothing left in it. They had handed the money to Julian for a cryptocurrency venture, convinced his ambition deserved an investment and mine deserved a lecture.
“He has a vision,” Dad told me. “You can pay your own way through trade school.”
Within six months, the money had disappeared into parties, leased sports cars, and investments that collapsed. Julian’s mistakes were always growing pains. Mine were proof they had been right about me.
Two years before that Christmas, their twenty-fifth anniversary gave me another chance. For four months, I carved a dining table from reclaimed white oak. I chose the boards for their grain and worked the edges until my palms recognized every curve.
Mom asked me to leave it outside. It didn’t match her interior.
The next day, I found Julian and his friends playing beer pong on it. Metal kegs and alcohol had scarred the finish. When I grabbed Julian’s collar, Dad shoved me backward.
“It’s wood, Gideon. Brothers share things. Stop embarrassing us.”
Not one person asked about the damage. I moved out after that. Four months before this Christmas, my rent doubled. My wages couldn’t absorb it. I packed my tools into the van, showered at public gyms, and ate cold beans from a can.
Then the doorbell rang, and my mother’s practiced smile disappeared.
Thaddius Carter stood outside in a charcoal coat, snow melting on his shoulders, his silver-tipped cane planted beside his shoe. My grandfather had withdrawn from our family ten years earlier, tired of the greed surrounding him. I had not seen him since.
Dad froze. Mom dropped her wine glass. It shattered against the hardwood.
Grandpa looked past them and found me near the wall. “Gideon. Come here.”
His embrace was unhurried and warm. Affection was the one thing I hadn’t prepared to defend myself against.
At dinner, Mom served the best cuts to Grandpa. Dad bragged about charity galas. Julian tossed out buzzwords about his new tech startup. Grandpa listened without offering a single word of praise.
Then Grandpa set his fork down and turned toward me.
“Are you still enjoying the two-million-dollar mansion I bought you, Gideon?”
My fork struck my plate. “A mansion?”
“The Clearwater estate. Your home.”
I looked at Dad. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. Mom’s hands flattened against the linen. Julian stopped moving his glass.
“Grandpa, I’ve been sleeping in my van. I’ve never owned a house.”
Mom turned sharply toward me. “Stop lying! You haven’t earned a house like that!”
The room went dead silent. Grandpa’s gaze hardened into steel. “Where is the house, Alistair?”
Mom began stammering about mold and renovations. Dad claimed they were protecting me, insisting I preferred a “nomadic lifestyle.”
Julian leaned back, smirking faintly. “He doesn’t appreciate property like that. We’re managing the investment until he’s ready.”
Grandpa pulled out his phone, put on his reading glasses, and found a text Dad had sent six months earlier. He read it aloud to the table: I was allegedly settled in the Clearwater estate, enjoying the heated pool, hosting barbecues, and endlessly grateful for Grandfather’s generosity.
Six months ago, I had been losing my apartment.
Mom burst into tears. “Julian needed capital! We were going to pay it back once his company went public!”
Dad reached out. “Dad, please—”
Grandpa pulled his arm away, his eyes fixed on the three of them.
May you like
I looked down at my stained hands. For months, I had blamed myself for freezing in an unheated van. Sitting across from me were the people who had locked me out in the cold—and sold my life to fund their golden boy.
***
