I rise from my seat, feeling a rush of excitement as I approach my parents. I make my way to my mom first and can't help but notice the tears welling up in her eyes. Oh, how I have missed this woman. Without hesitation, I envelop her in a tight hug, feeling her warmth spread through me. It's as if I'm drawing strength from her, clutching her as if she were my lifeline.
"I've missed you so much, Mom," I finally say, my voice thick with emotion, struggling to keep the tears at bay.
As we pull away from the embrace, she teases, "I heard you tell your sister you came home just for her. Am I wrong?" Her light-hearted joke breaks the seriousness of the moment, eliciting laughter from everyone around the table, except for my dad, who is always the exception to the rule.
"Good evening, Dad," I say, standing tall as I study his expression. He doesn't look entirely pleased, but at least there's a hint of happiness there—far better than when I last returned home.
"How have you been, son?" he asks, the tension in the air palpable.
"I've been doing well, Dad. How about you?" I respond, trying to gauge his mood.
"Not so fine. Have a seat; let's eat before the food turns stale. We can talk over the meal." I should have perceived that as a warning sign; my father rarely talks over meals. Yet, overwhelmed with joy at being home, I brush off my instincts.
As I take my seat, I begin to serve myself dinner, the aroma wafting through the air reminding me of countless family meals. The food tastes exquisite—I hadn't realized just how much I missed the flavors of home-cooked meals. Each bite is like a revelation, a stark contrast to the bland, lifeless food I've been eating elsewhere.
After a few minutes of quiet eating, my father's voice cuts through the silence. "So, what have you been up to, son?" The question caught me off guard; I wasn't prepared for it. I had hoped for a reprieve from serious topics, at least for today. I sense the scrutiny of my family upon me, each of them waiting for my response, except for Martin. He's always kept a respectful distance from my affairs.
"I've been studying, Dad. I'm trying to settle a few things for my finals," I say, hoping that will suffice.
"That's good to hear. Keep up the effort, son," my mom interjects, giving me a smile that encourages me. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch my dad nodding in approval. Phew! To my surprise, he doesn't pursue the conversation any further, but that small victory provides little comfort as the atmosphere remains charged.
Once again, the dining room falls into silence, save for the sounds of utensils clinking against plates. It's a brief respite until my father's voice breaks through again, this time asking, "What are your plans after you graduate?" His gaze feels like it's penetrating my very soul. I realize now that I had naively hoped he could change, that perhaps I could have a peaceful dinner.
I can feel all eyes on me once more, including Martin's. They all know how these questions usually lead to tense confrontations. The last time we had this kind of conversation, I left home for eight long months.
"I haven't made any specific plans for after graduation, Dad, but I'll look into it once I finish school," I say defensively. It feels like I'm trying to shield myself from impending conflict.
"That's good that you're considering it, but time isn't on our side. You need to have something lined up for yourself. I need to know what you plan on doing. You can't afford to wait until you graduate to think about your future," he asserts, his voice steady and resolute as he wipes his mouth and hands clean with a napkin. I chose to remain silent, understanding that saying anything further would only escalate the situation.
"You see, what your father is trying to say is that you'll soon be taking over the family business. I suggest you start visiting the companies to familiarize yourself with their operations and stay updated on recent changes. That way, when the time comes to take over, it will be much easier," my mom offers, attempting to ease the tension that hangs heavily in the air.
"I understand, Mom. However, I have other interests that I want to pursue. The company can be managed by someone else; I have something I'm genuinely passionate about," I respond, hoping desperately that they won't press me for more details.
"And what exactly is it that you're interested in doing?" my father asks, a glimmer of curiosity flickering in his eyes. I brace myself, knowing full well that he is unlikely to approve of my dreams.
"I want to become a professional car racer," I declare, preparing for the inevitable backlash. Almost immediately, I watch as my parents' expressions fall. The look of disappointment on my father's face gradually replaces any semblance of approval, while my mom grips the edge of her seat as though she might topple over. My sister's eyes widen, and she fumbles nervously with her glass of water. Martin shifts uncomfortably, fully aware of the tension that's about to unfold.
"Do you ever consider how we feel as your parents? Why would you want to jeopardize everything we've worked hard for? Can't you see how well your brother Martin is doing?" the pain in his voice is evident, yet I can't bring myself to care. He has shown little regard for my feelings over the years. Why does he constantly feel the need to compare me to Martin?
"I do consider your feelings, Dad, but my priorities must come first. I will only pursue what I find fulfilling," I say firmly, locking eyes with him. I anticipate an argument, but his next question takes me by surprise.
"How do you go about becoming a professional car racer?" he inquires, genuinely interested. This isn't a conversation I had prepared for.
I hesitate, then say, "I haven't looked into the specifics…"
"see me in the conference room first thing tomorrow morning," he says as he leaves the room and my mother follows closely behind.