“How’s your steak?” My father asked, smiling politely to mask the malice behind his eyes. When I didn’t offer a response, my mother set her glass down on the table. “Anthony…..your father’s speaking to you?” “It’s fine,” he said, patting my mother’s hand to quiet her. Taking the time to casually wipe his mouth before addressing me, my father loosened his tie and sat back comfortably in his chair. “I sure hope you intend to adjust your attitude before our houseguests arrive. I’d hate for you to make them feel unwelcomed.” Houseguests? More like victims. “I won’t be here. I have plans,” I replied, shoveling the food around my plate instead of eating it. “Plans?” My father asked with an air of knowing. “With Sam.” A heavy sigh from across the table brought my eyes to my father’s as he shot me a frustrated stare.
