The mention of their mother, Martha, brought a sudden, sharp chill to the room. She had been the glue, the buffer between Elias’s stoicism and Julian’s rebellion, between Claire’s duty and her hidden resentments. Now, that glue was gone, and the pieces were beginning to grate against one another.
The dinner table at the Miller household was less a place of nourishment and more a tactical map. Each place setting was a bunker, and every passing of the salt was a calculated maneuver.
Julian paused, his hand on the door handle. "Yeah. Tomorrow."
Then there was Julian, the prodigal son, whose arrival earlier that afternoon had shattered the fragile peace. He sat across from Claire, his mere presence a reminder of everything they had tried to bury. He carried the scent of the city—fast-paced and unforgiving—a stark contrast to the stagnant air of the family home.
"Money is the only thing that speaks clearly in this family," Elias muttered.
"The house looks the same," Julian remarked, his voice cutting through the clinking of silverware.
"I’m here because she asked me to be," Julian said, his tone softening. "Not for the money, Dad."
Elias cleared his throat, a sound like dry leaves skittering across a sidewalk. "You’re here for the reading of the will, I assume. Your mother’s final wishes."