“Cheers,” Kitti said, raising her glass, her cheeks flushed.
Before she brought the crystal to her lips, she glanced once more at the elegant table. The porcelain inherited from her great-grandmother was fulfilling its mission yet again. The silver set, a wedding gift, stretched gracefully across the crisply ironed napkins. No one else in the family could set a table like this—only her. And everyone knew it. Especially the three married couples present. Her mother-in-law and two sisters-in-law couldn’t even set a proper table. Beyond the spoon, knife, and fork, they didn’t seem to recognize any other utensils. Kitti shook her curls proudly and drained her glass in one elegant motion.
Her mother-in-law nodded approvingly as Kitti served the appetizer. She was the first to help herself to the homemade duck pâté. The elderly woman didn’t even bother with toast—she simply ate it with a little spoon, straight from the dish.
“Sweetheart, this is absolutely divine! I couldn’t make it this good even if I stood on my head.”
“You don’t need to,” Kitti chirped sweetly. “That’s what I’m here for—so there’s always some when you visit.”
Then she turned to her husband.
“Sweetheart, would you be so kind as to bring Mama another napkin? One she can put on her lap?”
“Don’t bother, dear,” his mother cut in quickly. “I don’t need one.”
“Oh, but you do,” Kitti chimed in, her tone as bright as glass. “There’s always enough food under Mama’s chair to feed another family. At least this way I won’t have to crawl on all fours to clean it up.”
A wave of tension passed through the dining room in its usual rhythm. Everyone’s posture straightened slightly; the couples unconsciously leaned closer to their plates.
Her husband, hesitant, spread the napkin over his mother’s lap. He sneaked a glance at Kitti, who rewarded him with a small nod and a gentle, satisfied smile.
Then a dull thud came from the end of the table.
“Shit,” one of the sisters-in-law snapped, frowning at her husband, who was bending under the table. “I told you twice my perfume was in my bag! I literally said it twice, and you still knocked it over.”
“It’s fine,” came the muffled voice from below. “See? Nothing’s broken,” he announced triumphantly.
“Lucky for you—otherwise you’d be buying me a new one.”
“Fair enough,” the man replied and kissed his smiling wife’s cheek in appeasement.
“Well, that was quick forgiveness,” the other sister-in-law remarked, clicking her tongue. “If my bag had hit the floor, you’d all be deaf by now from my screaming.”
“That’s because you’re crazy,” her husband laughed. “And because you love your junk more than me.”
“If you ever call my bags junk again—” she said with mock outrage.
Their mother tapped her knife gently against her glass.
“Girls, that’s enough. Behave yourselves—you’re not at home,” she said with a laugh.
“Exactly,” Kitti joined in, her voice sweet but razor-sharp. “Otherwise, I might have to give your mother a plastic cup next time if she can’t handle the expensive crystal.”
Silence fell instantly. Everyone went back to eating, far too eagerly. The clinking of cutlery was the only sound that remained.
“Still,” Kitti purred into her husband’s ear, loud enough for everyone to hear, “I’m so glad we love each other more than some shitty perfume or handbag.”
All six guests shifted uncomfortably in their velvet-covered chairs. The soft rustling filled the charged silence.
The aroma of chicken soup filled the dining room. Steam curled lazily upward toward the chandelier. Her father-in-law inhaled deeply with closed eyes, savoring it like a prayer. He could hardly wait to dip his spoon. Kitti always served him first. And although everyone was supposed to start eating together, the old man usually sneaked a bite of carrot or a tender piece of meat. His spoon clinked softly, betraying him with a tiny metallic whisper.
Once every bowl was filled, Kitti nodded, signaling that they could proceed with the next course. Her husband leaned back in his chair and cleared his throat pointedly.
“Enjoy, sweetheart,” Kitti breathed. “Let’s eat before it gets cold…”
“Sure. It’s just—you didn’t give me any chicken skin. You know how much I love it.”
Kitti’s smile tightened. Her eyes flashed. The air froze for a heartbeat; even the steam seemed to halt above the bowls.
“I took the skin off because all that fat isn’t good for you,” she hissed.
“But the drumstick on Mom’s plate still has the skin on,” he pointed across the table.
“Really?” she sang, drawing out the word.
Then, in one deliberate motion, she leaned over the table. Her mother-in-law’s plate slid slightly as Kitti snatched the lower drumstick off it. With a wild, clawing motion of her manicured fingers, she tore off the skin, tossed the meat back onto the old woman’s plate, and flung the greasy strip into her husband’s bowl. Hot broth splashed in yellow drops across his mother’s white blouse and dripped down his salmon-colored shirt with the gold buttons.
“Why did you do that?” her husband asked, his voice icy.
Kitti slowly lifted her head. The corner of her mouth trembled ominously.
“So you can have your fucking chicken skin,” she spat, “and get as fat as your mother and those two psychopathic sisters of yours!”