"Adriel," she said, as if confirming his presence. "You're looking... well."
"Hi, Mom," he said.
His father grunted something that might have been a greeting. His mother ignored it. The table settled into the familiar grounds: his mother holding court, his father retreating behind the menu, and Adriel in the middle, the reason they were here and somehow the least important person at the table.
They ordered. His mother made small talk about people Adriel didn't know, events he hadn't attended, gossip that meant nothing to him. His father contributed nothing, eyes on his phone between courses, occasionally nodding at something she said without actually listening. Adriel went through the motions he'd been going through his whole life; nodded in the right places, made the right sounds, performed the role of grateful son receiving the gift of his parents' time.
Then the food came. And the commentary began.
"That shirt," his mother said, eyeing him over her wine glass. "It's a bit tight, don't you think? Maybe you should have gone up a size."
Adriel looked down at himself. The shirt was fine. It fit. Landen had told him this morning that he looked good in it, had kissed him before he left and saidwear that one, the colour suits you.
"I like it," Adriel said.
His mother's mouth tightened.
"And your hair." She shook her head slightly. "Did you let them do whatever they wanted again? That style doesn't flatter your face shape. I told you to go to my stylist."
Adriel touched his hair without meaning to. Pulled his hand back down.
"It's fine, mom." he said.
She hummed. A noncommittal sound that somehow managed to convey disagreement.
Adriel glanced at his father. He was cutting his steak, eyes on his plate, mouth shut. The same posture he'd held through every one of these meals, every one of these comments, for Adriel's entire life. Not agreeing, not disagreeing. Just absent. Checked out. As if the things being said to his son were background noise, someone else's problem, nothing that required his involvement.
They ate for a while in silence. Or they ate; Adriel pushed food around his plate, his appetite fading with each passing minute.
"You know," his mother said eventually, setting down her fork, "my friend Grace sent me a new diet she's been trying out. Something with oranges and eggs. You like oranges, don't you?"
His father said nothing. Kept eating.
Adriel looked at his mother. He looked at her the way you'd look at a stranger, someone you were meeting for the first time. He took in the perfectly styled hair, the expensive clothes, the careful makeup designed to hide every imperfection. He took in the way she held herself, stiff and rigid, like she was afraid of taking up too much space even as she tried to fill every room.
Then he looked at his father. At the man who had never once, in Adriel's entire life, told his wife to stop. Who had never saidleave him aloneorthat's enoughorhe's fine the way he is. Who had, when a ten-year-old Adriel came to them crying about being bullied for his weight, looked at him and saidwell, is it bullying if it's true?The man who suggested the gym every time they spoke, who made exercise sound like medicine for the disease of being Adriel, who loved his son in theory and had no idea what to do with him in practice.
He looked at both of them. And for the first time, he didn't feel small.
He felt done.
His mother was still talking. He heard the words but they washed over him, meaningless. The same script she'd been reading his whole life, delivered with the sameI'm only saying this because I love youtone that was supposed to make it okay. His father was still silent, still absent, still performing the role of the parent who doesn't get involved, as if neutrality in the face of cruelty was something to be proud of.
She kept talking. Didn't notice that he'd stopped responding, stopped nodding, stopped performing. His father didn't notice either, or if he did, he didn't care enough to comment. They wereboth too caught up in their own patterns, hers of attack, his of retreat, to see that something in their son had shifted.
When she finally ran out of steam, she looked at him. Waited for his reaction. The flinch. The deflection. The quiet acceptance she was used to.
Adriel set down his fork.
"It must be really sad," he said. His voice was calm. Steady. He barely recognised it.
His mother blinked. "What?"
"To be so insecure," Adriel continued. "So obsessed with appearances. So afraid of being yourself in fear of what everyone else might say. So unhappy with your own life that you feel the need to tear other people apart just to feel a tiny bit superior. Just slightly better than someone else."
Her mouth opened. Closed.
"And for that person to be your child," he said. "Someone who came from you. Someone you're supposed to love unconditionally. That's just..." He shook his head slowly. "Tragic, really. Devastating."