Chapter 3: Dinner Table Drama

Dinner time.

The dining room looked like a magazine spread: polished walnut table, matching chairs, a vase of sunflowers soaking up the last of the evening light. The family had set the table for six, but you could feel the space between us like a wall of glass. The smell of roast chicken and garlic bread hung in the air, but nobody reached for the food. As soon as I entered the dining room, I heard the eldest brother, Matthew—who had rushed back—complaining loudly.

"Mom, Dad, how could you give Rachel's room to someone else? You know she's never been able to sleep in another bed since she was little. If you make her switch, how will she sleep?"

He finished, turned, and saw me. Immediately, his brow furrowed and he looked at me with obvious disdain.

There was a tightness in his jaw, the kind you see on high school quarterbacks who think they run the world. "You just got here and you’re already causing drama. Can’t even sit down to eat like a normal person."

Scolded by their own son, Mr. and Mrs. Carter's faces darkened, and their looks toward me turned full of blame—as if all this was my fault.

The room grew colder by a few degrees, the clink of silverware suddenly too loud. Only the clueless Jason was still explaining, "Matt, Rachel wanted to give up the room herself."

Matthew was instantly silenced by that.

The air shifted; he shot a look at Rachel, who blinked, startled by the sudden attention. Rachel quickly went to tug his sleeve. "Matt, don't say any more. This was always Emily's."

But even as she said that, her face was full of hurt.

Matthew patted her hand to comfort her, then glared coldly at me.

His grip was protective, his glare pure frost. "Rachel offered to give up the room because she's kind, but you should be considerate too. Rachel isn't used to sleeping elsewhere. After dinner, move out and pick another room."

I ignored him and turned to the Carter parents. "And you two? Do you agree with him?"

My tone was measured but firm, inviting them to either back up their golden boy or stand up for fairness. Mr. Carter pressed his lips together, silent.

He stared down at his plate, fiddling with the edge of his napkin like he wished it could swallow him whole. Mrs. Carter hesitated. "Emily, your brother has a point. Rachel really can't sleep in another bed."

Her words came out soft, but I could hear the plea in them: make this easy, let us avoid confrontation. "But I don't want to move." I calmly pulled out a chair and sat down. "And I don't think Matt's words make any sense."

I pulled out an old-school voice recorder—one of those clunky ones you see in detective movies, not something anyone under thirty uses anymore. I set it on the table, and pressed play.

A tiny, old-school gadget—something I'd picked up at a yard sale years ago. The afternoon's conversation—me choosing a room with the Carter family—played out loud and clear in the dining room.

The sound of our voices bounced around the room, sharper and less polished than anyone remembered. Rachel’s wavering answers. My repeated questions. The parents’ forced agreement. Nobody could pretend anymore.