The amber light above our table suddenly felt ten degrees hotter.

The cool night air of Philadelphia hit us like a refreshing splash of water as we stepped out of The Gilded Ox and onto the cobblestone sidewalk.

The city hummed around us with distant traffic, neon signs reflecting off the damp pavement from an earlier drizzle.

Noah and Sophie skipped ahead toward my sedan, holding hands and chattering excitedly about the chocolate pudding and the dinosaur chicken fingers. The trauma of being told they had to eat after the adults had already evaporated from their six-year-old minds, replaced entirely by the immediate, glowing joy of sprinkles and ice cream promises.

My parents emerged from the restaurant a few paces behind me, my dad chuckling softly under his breath while shaking his head.

“Ethan,” Dad said, catching up to me by the passenger side door and clapping a heavy hand onto my shoulder. “I shouldn't have laughed. I really shouldn't have laughed.”

“Who said you were laughing, Dad?” I grinned, unlocking the car doors with a click of my fob.

“Oh, I was laughing on the inside,” Mom chimed in, climbing into the front passenger seat with a triumphant sigh. “Lord help me, Ethan, I was laughing so hard I almost choked on my salmon. Did you see Raymond’s face? He looked like he swallowed a lemon whole.”

“He had it coming,” Dad muttered, sliding into the back seat next to the twins, who immediately clambered over him to show off their paper placemat drawings. “The boy has been living above his means for twenty years, acting like the rest of us are peasants because we don't lease German luxury sedans. Somebody had to pop that bubble eventually.”

“I didn't pop anything, Dad,” I said, starting the engine and pulling out from the curb. “The bank did that all on its own.”

“You set the trap, son,” Dad laughed. “Don't be modest. It suits you poorly.”

We drove through the illuminated streets of downtown Philly, stopping at a local 24-hour diner where the neon sign buzzed a friendly, unpretentious yellow. We didn't need white tablecloths or crystal chandeliers. We needed a vinyl booth, a waitress named Brenda who called everyone ‘honey,’ and a couple of milkshakes.

While Noah and Sophie eagerly studied the laminated dessert menu—checking it for ice cream options despite having just eaten a mountain of pudding—my phone began to vibrate violently in my jacket pocket.

Bzzzz. Bzzzz. Bzzzz.

I pulled it out.

The screen flashed a caller ID that I hadn't seen light up in over a year.

Uncle Raymond.

I stared at the glowing letters for three seconds, letting the vibration pulse against my palm.

“Who is it?” Mom asked, peering across the center console.

“The man of the hour,” I smiled, tapping the screen to silence the ringer and tossing the phone facedown onto the table.

“Aren't you going to answer?” Dad asked.

“And miss the sequel? Never. Let him sweat.”

My phone buzzed again immediately. Then a text message popped up on the banner notification.

Raymond: Ethan. Pick up the phone. Don't be a coward. I need to talk to you about the bill.