— Enough, Albert! How dare you speak to her like that after everything she went through in her childhood? You should be ashamed.
— Ah no, not the adultery card, Marguerite!
— I almost lost my daughter that day because of your recklessness. If you dare threaten to cut off her allowance again, we will settle this in front of those who decide—the board, the lawyers, the succession papers. Count yourself lucky to still be in this house and to claim leadership; but remember that leading is not the same as possessing. You are the father of my children, and I respect that very much, Albert, but don't push your luck too far.
The silence fell back, heavy as a curtain. Cutlery was put down, glasses placed without a sound; one could only hear my father's quickened breath and my mother's calm respiration. I continued eating, turning the fork between my fingers, a small, almost imperceptible smile on my lips. In their home, the staging of power was routine: Albert's gestures made a lot of noise; Marguerite's words, few in number, moved mountains.
"Poor Albert," I thought to myself, without saying it aloud. "You draw plans, you measure spaces, but she owns the blueprints of the house."
I took another bite, calm, letting the tension dissolve in the background. The meal continued as if nothing had happened—or rather, as if everything was proceeding according to long-established rules.
The meal was over. My father rose from his chair casually, ready to go about his weekend activities; he would surely go join some friends. My mother fixed her gaze on me, without deigning to speak a word. I got up in turn: I had planned to meet Manue at her place, and Fabiola would join us; we would surely have a slumber party to share our naughty little secrets. And, damn, at that moment, I really needed a cigarette.
— Mom, I'm off to join the girls. I'll be here tomorrow morning to have breakfast with you before hitting the road for Clairmony.
I turned on my heels, but they called after me:
— Babe! Please... I hope you don't hold a grudge against your father. You know how he is, he made mistakes, but...
— Don't worry. Don't try to hide the dust under the carpet either, we all know what happened. God only knows if he regrets it... Nevertheless, I'm doing well. And how can I take his words to heart when you are here?
I feigned a smile, which seemed to reassure her. Yet, deep down, I was seething with anger at her, just thinking that she had forgiven him so easily. All this is pure injustice. Maybe I am too resentful; maybe that explains my refusal to marry and ever accept forgiveness from an adulterous husband, pretending I want to protect my family and raise my children in a supposedly perfect family in the eyes of the world and high society. I don't care about those absurdities. I want a boyfriend in my life, but I categorically refuse to marry. What an irony! What will happen if this boyfriend starts considering marriage? Ah, I would run away and leave him hanging! Oh, misery!
Only a few steps separated me from Manue's house, and I could already see its bright, welcoming facade, much more inviting than the frozen, calculated air of my own home. Passing by the door, I ran into her mother coming out, radiant as always. Flamboyant lipstick, a slightly tight but elegant dress, she embodied that contagious zest for life that Manue seemed to have inherited: like mother, like daughter, huh?
— Baby! How are you? It's been a long time! And your parents, are you just here for the weekend?
I smirked, holding back a little laugh: if only you knew...
— Yes, just for the weekend, I replied, my tone deliberately neutral.
Her mother winked at me and threw out with that lightness I sometimes envied:
— No mischief, girls, have fun!
I nodded, amused. Manue was already waiting for me in front of her house, a bright smile, ready to engulf me in her world where family tensions were still an abstract concept. Fabiola would soon join us, and I could already feel that this evening promised to be exactly what I needed: laughter, confessions, and forgetting, even just for a little while, the dramas of the villa.
We went up to her room, a pastel refuge with walls covered in artist posters and a perfectly organized mess. Manue gave me a scrutinizing look, arms crossed, like a worried mother.
— Are you okay? You look exhausted...
I shrugged, a half-smile on my lips.
— Let's say sharing a meal with my parents is a bit like shooting a dramatic film without a break between scenes. Exhausting, but visually coherent.
Manue rolled her eyes and handed me a glass of red wine.
— Here, tragedy actress, this will help you get off the family script.
I took a sip. The wine slid over my tongue, dense and velvety, a little harsh—the kind of wine that gives the illusion of being an adult, before reminding you that you just want to run away from your problems with flair.
I took a cigarette out of my bag, lit it, and the calm finally began to settle in.
— You want to know the best part? I said, slowly exhaling the smoke.
I laughed softly, taking another puff.
— Wait... at least look at his face before you condemn him.
I handed her my phone.
Manue looked at the picture, raised an eyebrow, then declared in a falsely serious tone:
— Okay, fine... he's super handsome. Maybe you could give him a second chance, just for science.
I burst out laughing.
— Science, really?
— Well yes, we have to test the theories of toxic charm!
At that precise moment, the door opened to reveal Fabiola, dramatic as always, with a blasé expression.
— Oh no... not another man story, I hope.
— Exactly. This friend Prince introduced me to...
—Wait, Prince introduced you to someone? Seriously?
— Yes. His name is Yannish.
I nodded, amused by her disbelief, and told her everything: the false frankness as a weapon of contempt, the disguised compliments, his pseudo-cursed poet speeches. Manue's eyes widened as I spoke, then she exclaimed in an indignant voice:
— But he's a maniac! You should block him, ghost him, erase him, send him to another planet if necessary!