Chapter 2: The Glass Tower
The rain had stopped by Sunday morning, leaving the valley wrapped in a low, gray mist that clung to the windows of the main house. I sat at the heavy oak kitchen table with a bowl of oatmeal that had gone cold around the edges. Margaret moved quietly between the stove and the counter, her movements efficient and devoid of warmth. Every sound in the kitchen felt magnified—the scrape of her spoon against ceramic, the drip of the faucet, the ticking of the wall clock.
The heavy front door clicked open, and the faint scent of expensive cologne and damp wool drifted down the hall. My father appeared in the doorway, his dark hair slightly mussed, his suit jacket draped over one arm. Richard looked tired, the faint shadows under his eyes betraying sixty-hour work weeks and endless flights between regional offices. Yet, the moment he stepped into the kitchen, his posture straightened into the confident executive stance he wore like armor.
"Morning, Margaret. Morning, sport," Richard said, tossing his keys onto the side table with a sharp clatter. He walked over and kissed Margaret’s cheek, a brief, practiced gesture, before pausing beside my chair and resting a heavy hand on my shoulder.
I stiffened automatically, my muscles locking under his palm before I forced myself to relax. Richard didn't notice the tension. He never noticed the small, defensive ways I carried myself. To him, children were another set of assets to be managed from a distance, provided for financially and visited when schedule permitted.
"Did you boys behave yourselves during the storm?" Richard asked, pulling out a chair and sitting down opposite me. He reached for the coffee pot Margaret immediately poured for him.
"Ethan was a little restless with the thunder," Margaret said, her voice carrying a light, musical concern as she set a fresh cup down. "He wandered down to the barn after dark instead of finishing his homework. We had a long talk about responsibilities."
Richard glanced at me, his gaze analytical, searching for the obedient son he expected to see in the glossy brochures of private boarding schools he kept in his study drawer. "You're getting too old to be afraid of a little weather, Ethan. Focus on your studies. Out in the real world, nobody cares about a thunderstorm when the numbers need to balance."
"Yes, Dad," I murmured, staring down into my gray bowl of oats.
"He's a sensitive boy," Margaret added smoothly, resting a hand on Richard's shoulder. The contrast between her manicured fingers and his dark suit jacket was the picture of domestic stability. "Just needs more structure. I'm handling it."
May you like
I looked up through my lashes, watching my father nod in agreement. He trusted her completely because trusting her allowed him to forget about us and return to his spreadsheets and high-rise views. In that quiet kitchen, surrounded by the smell of fresh coffee and polished wood, I understood the unwritten rule of our household: the surface must always remain pristine, no matter what rotted underneath.
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