Chapter 3

In the middle of the chaos, my little cousin Leo, Aunt Carol' s son, walked timidly toward Arthur. He was only six years old, a sweet, quiet boy who didn't understand the toxic currents in our family. In his small hand, he clutched a handmade card, decorated with crookedly drawn stick figures and a big, yellow sun.

"Happy birthday, Great-Grandpa," he whispered, holding the card up. "I made this for you."

For a moment, the entire table held its breath. Maybe, just maybe, the innocence of a child could cut through the hatred.

Arthur snatched the card from Leo' s hand. He glanced at it for a second, his lip curling in disgust.

"What is this garbage?" he said, his voice dripping with contempt. "This is an insult. Can't you even draw a straight line? You're as useless as your father was."

Leo' s eyes welled up with tears. "I tried my best," he mumbled, his little chin trembling.

"Your best is pathetic," Arthur sneered. "You're a whiny little crybaby. A disappointment. Now get out of my sight."

That was too much for Aunt Carol. She had endured the insults to herself, the constant, cruel reminders of her husband's death. But to see that same cruelty directed at her innocent son shattered her completely.

She scooped Leo into her arms as he began to sob.

"You monster," she hissed at Arthur, her face a mask of grief and rage. "You absolute monster."

The restaurant manager was now hovering near our table, looking horrified. "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to calm down or leave."

Arthur whirled on him. "Don't you tell me what to do! I'm the customer!" He then turned his venom back on Carol. He seemed to relish the pain he was causing.

"That boy is weak because his father was weak!" he shouted, jabbing a finger toward Carol and Leo. "David was a fool! A fool who died for nothing! He should have let me drown! It would have been a worthy trade!"

The air was sucked out of the room. It was the most vile, unspeakable thing he could have said. He hadn't just insulted the memory of the man who saved his life; he had celebrated it as a good deal.

Aunt Carol let out a sound that was half scream, half sob. Her body shook with a rage so profound it was terrifying.

"I hope you die in that same lake," she spat, her voice thick with hatred. "I hope you fall in and there's no one there to save you this time. I hope you die alone, just like you deserve!"

With that, she turned and fled the restaurant, clutching her weeping son to her chest. The rest of us were frozen, horrified by the depths of his cruelty. The birthday party was not just ruined; it was a smoking crater, a testament to his destructive power.

My father, Tom, looked at Arthur with pure, undiluted loathing. The silence that had defined his relationship with his father for so long was finally, irrevocably broken.

"Get out of my sight," Tom said, his voice dangerously quiet. He took a step toward Arthur. "If you don't leave right now, I won't be responsible for what I do to you."

Several of my uncles and cousins, who had been sitting in stunned silence, stood up and moved to my father's side, forming a wall between him and Arthur. The family had finally, decisively, turned against its tyrant.