A Hundred Regrets and One Easter Table
“You brought him here? Now? On Easter?” My sister Melissa’s voice sliced through the hallway the second I walked in. I felt Jacob’s hand tighten on mine, his confidence melting as he took in the chaos—kids screaming, my mom barking orders, and the familiar smell of burnt ham that always meant family in the most unappetizing way.
I forced a smile. “He wanted to meet everyone. You know, make a good impression.”
Melissa rolled her eyes. “Well, good luck with that.” She disappeared into the kitchen, leaving me clutching Jacob’s hand like a lifeline. I should have left then. I should have listened to the tiny voice screaming that family gatherings were a minefield, not a welcome mat. But I didn’t.
My mother, Linda, appeared in the doorway, cheeks flushed from the oven heat and probably from the sight of me with someone new. She wiped her hands on her apron and forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“So this is Jacob,” she said, scanning him up and down. “You must be hungry.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Johnson. The house smells amazing,” Jacob replied, ever the optimist.
My mom grunted. “Well, it’s not a restaurant. Help set the table, will you?” Then she tossed him a stack of napkins and disappeared.
Jacob looked at me, eyebrows raised. “She’s… intense.”
“That’s one word for it,” I whispered. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”
The dining room was a war zone. My three sisters—Melissa, Kate, and Zoe—argued over who got the good seats. My cousin Riley was already three beers in, loudly recounting his latest breakup to anyone who’d listen. My grandma, ever diplomatic, sat in the corner knitting and pretending not to hear the chaos.
Kate spotted us and smirked. “Oh look, it’s the golden child and her plus-one.”
I bristled. “Don’t start, Kate. Not today.”
She shrugged. “Just didn’t think you’d bring someone so soon after—”
Jacob squeezed my hand, sensing the tension. “I’m glad to be here,” he said politely. The room quieted for a split second, as if everyone was waiting for the next explosion.
We sat. Plates clattered. The ham was overcooked, the mashed potatoes lumpy. Conversation sputtered and died, then flared up again in arguments about politics, money, and who was Mom’s favorite. Jacob tried to jump in, but his New York accent and easy laugh fell flat against my family’s Midwest suspicion.
Midway through dinner, my mom leaned over to me. “You barely know this boy. Are you sure you want to parade him around like this?”
I swallowed hard. “He’s good to me, Mom. Can’t you just give him a chance?”
She sighed. “You always were the dreamer. Just don’t come running to me when he breaks your heart.”
Jacob pretended not to hear, but later, as we washed dishes together, he whispered, “I feel like I’m on trial. Do they always do this?”
“Only on weekends ending in ‘y’,” I joked, but it came out brittle.
Melissa passed behind us, muttering, “I give it three months.”
Jacob’s face fell. I wanted to scream, to defend him, to defend myself, but the words stuck in my throat. Instead, I handed him a dish towel and tried to blink away tears.
After dinner, my family settled into the living room for the annual Easter movie, but the air was thick with old grudges and new wounds. Jacob and I sat on the edge of the couch, barely touching, both of us wishing we were anywhere else.
As the credits rolled, Mom cornered me in the hallway. “You know, family is forever. These people—your sisters, me—we’ll be here long after he’s gone. Don’t forget where you come from.”
I bit my lip. “But what if I want something different? What if I want someone who sees me—not just the version you all expect?”
She had no answer. Just a sigh, and then she walked away, leaving me in the shadow of her disappointment.
In the car ride home, Jacob was quiet. I finally broke the silence. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why they—”
He shook his head. “You don’t have to apologize for them. But you do have to decide—do you want to keep fighting for their approval, or do you want to live your life?”
The question echoed in my mind all the way home. I stared out the window at the passing lights, wondering how many more holidays would leave me feeling like a stranger in my own life.
Now, lying awake in bed, I keep replaying every awkward moment, every cold glance, every biting word. I wonder: is family supposed to be this hard? Or is it just mine?
Would you ever risk bringing someone new to a family gathering, knowing it might all go wrong? Or is it better to protect your heart and keep your worlds apart?