The dining room was silent now, save for the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. The atmosphere was tense, the air heavy with unresolved emotions.
Plates sat abandoned on the table, Scott's barely touched meal an unspoken testament to the storm that had erupted just moments ago. His fork lay tilted off the edge of the plate, remnants of mashed potatoes smeared on its tines.
The roast chicken was half-eaten, and the vegetables sat untouched, growing cold.
Scott's father, Richard, leaned back in his chair, his brow furrowed deeply as he stared at the doorway Scott had stormed through. His hands rested on the arms of his chair, gripping them tightly as if holding himself back from following his son. Across from him, his wife, Melissa, sat with her arms crossed defensively, her jaw set and her gaze fixed on the table.
