The Picture-Perfect Family

We held hands as my father said the prayers.

"Heavenly Father, we thank you for this food and for the ones who prepared it." He smiled warmly at my mother, who chuckled in response. "May it nourish our bodies and give us the strength to do good in this world.” He paused, giving us all a moment to truly feel thankful for what we had. “Amen."

"Amen," we followed.

Everyone picked up their knife and fork in unison and began to dissect their food in silence. I copied their movements, but my ears started aching from the scratching sounds made when my mother’s fork would come in contact with her plate. It echoed in this terribly long room that seemed built solely to cater to the dining table, which stretched out for another five rows of empty mahogany seats. It was unwieldy for a meagre family of four. This entire house was unwieldy.

I could hear the slow chewing of meat from beside me. My brother had always been the quiet type. He did as he was told; he was my parents’ prized possession, the smartest and sweetest boy they could have ever hoped for.

Would they have felt the same way if they knew what was going on under the table? His hand gripped my thigh, his thumb rubbed circles on my skin, and I almost gagged on the scream that remained permanently lodged in my throat.

He breathed out a hum, and I wished I could stab my fork into his eye. But I couldn't do that. I was starting to have thoughts again. I couldn't afford to have that, not here.

I needed more Xanax. I needed to stay numb. If I unraveled, I’d become imperfect.

My throat burned as his hand remained on my thigh. If only my mother could drop that stupid butterknife she was holding. If only she could see what he was doing to me. But I knew the type of woman she was. She would feign ignorance. Her family was perfect in the eyes of strangers, and that's all that mattered. Who cared what the psychotic daughter had to say?

They put food in my stomach and a roof over my head. My parents were indeed good people.

My father had always been a good man; he was known to be kind and giving. That’s what made my mother fall in love with him in the first place. A charitable, rich, and handsome young man; who could ever say no to that?

It was all thanks to him that we were here. The world’s happiest, traditional nuclear family. The perfect family.

My father’s leg was pacing. He was never the type to be nervous. Not until a week ago. He fidgeted with the napkin for a while as I watched his eyes dart from the food to my mother and then to the family portrait. The picture seemed to have reminded him of who he was. Of how he was meant to behave, as he stiffened and straightened his back.

“God is so good to us.” My mother places a hand over my father’s.

God was indeed very good to us.

“Yes, my dear.” We all heard the quiver in his voice, and I caught the twitch in my mother’s lips as my father’s hand turned white beneath her fingers.

I stabbed my fork into the meat and swirled it around the broth. My father took another mouthful, and I smiled.

“Mother, this meal is delicious!” I lied. My food remained untouched.

Everyone stared at me, and there was an odd look on my mother’s face. The whites of her eyes became more prominent than her brown pupils. Her lips - painted with a terribly bright shade of red - pulled back slowly into a grin as she flashed me with a perfect row of pearly whites. It was then that I wished the chandelier directly above us would just fall and set the house ablaze. Somewhere along the way, my thoughts became louder.

“It’s a new recipe I conjured up, and the bazaar had some fresh meat.” I nodded at my mother’s enthusiasm.

The bazaar was closed on the weekends.

“The bazaar? Darling, you should have taken the butler with you!” My father knew better than to say anything at all. I saw a bead of sweat trickle down his temple and latch onto another drop. It landed on his collar, and he dabbed at his cheeks. Did he really think no one noticed him?

“Oh dear, you know I love going out alone sometimes. The people here are so welcoming!” My fingers felt cold, but it was the middle of summer. I wondered if this was the effect of going into withdrawal.

My mother started twisting my father’s wedding band; her eyes remained wide open for an eerily long moment. “Oh, honey, your ring looks as pretty and clean as it did when we got married.” An awkward silence lingered for a while till my brother cleared his throat and finally removed his hand from me.

“Mother, is there enough for some more?” And she eagerly nodded to please him. Her sweet boy wanted some more after all.

She stood up and began to reach over to the pot when she halted her movements. She slowly scooped up the broth and started to pull out a blonde strand of hair. We were a family of brunettes. “Oh, we just have to go talk to the priest about this! Unpleasant things always seem to make their way here.” Her frown disappeared, and she raised them, putting on her signature grin as she twisted her head to look at my father once more, “Isn’t it, my dear!” Her pitch increased.

My father choked. His face paled, and his hand stiffened midway; broth dripped from the edge of his spoon. “Oh, honey!” I heard my mother whine dramatically as she patted him on the back. “Don’t eat so quickly, it’ll cause heartburn, and you’ve always had such a weak heart, my dear.” A weak heart indeed, that blonde bitch had his heart going through turmoil.

“Father must have loved your food so much,” I giggled. The chandelier should have fallen when I wished for it. But it didn’t, and we were all still alive. I finally picked up the meat as my father had gotten a hold of himself. I raised my spoon to my lips and took a sip of the broth. My brother’s hand returned onto my thigh, and the room no longer felt empty.

My perfect family finally came back to me.