Chapter 3 - The Gathering of Leeches
When I stepped back into the living room, the television was still blaring an episode of a trashy reality dating show. Brooke was reclined back against our decorative pillows, her bare feet propped up on the armrest of the sofa, scrolling through Instagram on an iPhone 15 Pro Max that I was currently paying thirty-five dollars a month for on my family plan.
Tessa was peeling the crust off a cold slice of pepperoni pizza, tossing the dough casually onto an empty paper plate on the floor. My mother, Darlene, had her eyes half-closed, a look of smug, bloated contentment across her face.
""Marcus,"" Mom spoke without opening her eyes, waving a flippant hand in the direction of the front door. ""Since you’re up, run down to the corner store and grab a two-liter of diet ginger ale. Hannah says we’re out, and this pizza is giving me terrible heartburn. And get the name brand this time, not that generic store garbage.""
I didn't move. I walked over to the television console, reached behind the flat-screen TV, and ripped the power cord directly out of the wall socket.
The screen instantly snapped to black. The loud chatter of the reality stars died out, leaving the room in a heavy, suffocating silence broken only by the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
Brooke gasped, sitting bolt upright. ""Hey! What is your problem? We were watching that!""
""Marcus Edward Miller,"" my mother barked, her eyes snapping open, her tone shifting immediately into that sharp, matriarchal reprimand she had used on me since I was six years old. ""Plug that back in right now. What has gotten into you? You come in here tracking dirt from that miserable warehouse, stomping around like you own the world, and now you’re throwing tantrums?""
""I do own this world,"" I said, my voice steady, dangerously calm. ""I pay the rent on this apartment. I pay the electric bill that powers that television. I pay for the internet connection you’re using to browse social media, Brooke. And judging by the receipt crumpled on the table, I just bought twenty-eight dollars worth of pizza that none of you offered to share with the woman carrying my child.""
Tessa rolled her eyes, letting out a loud, theatrical groan. ""Oh, here we go. Saint Marcus is on his high horse again. We bought pizza because Hannah didn't cook enough food, Marcus! She made two tiny casseroles and acted like she was dying the whole time. If she can't handle making a simple dinner for four guests, she’s going to be a terrible mother.""
Before the sentence had fully left Tessa's mouth, I took two long strides across the room. I didn't yell. I didn't raise a hand. But the look in my eyes must have been terrifying, because Tessa visibly shrank back into the cushions of the recliner, her mouth clamping shut mid-smirk.
""Say another word about my wife's mothering,"" I said, leaning down until my face was inches from hers, ""and I swear to God, Tessa, you will walk home tonight without your car.""
""Marcus!"" my mother screeched, struggling to sit up on the couch, her face turning a mottled shade of crimson. ""Don't you dare threaten your sister! What is wrong with you? Has that little manipulator in the other room been whispering poison in your ear again? I warned you about marrying a girl with no family money! She’s lazy, she’s fragile, and she’s trying to tear this family apart!""
""She isn't tearing anything apart, Mom,"" I said, turning slowly to face her. ""She’s the only person in this room who hasn't been stealing from me for five years.""
The room went completely still.
Brooke’s thumbs froze over her phone screen. A flicker of panic crossed Tessa’s eyes.
My mother, however, was an expert at deflection. She let out a high-pitched, mocking laugh, clutching her chest as if she had just been stabbed. ""Stealing? How dare you! After everything I sacrificed to raise you? After working two jobs when your father ran off? I raised you with my own two hands, and now you accuse your own mother of stealing because I ask for a little help with my heart medicine?""
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""The medicine that costs three hundred dollars a month?"" I asked calmly, pulling out my own phone and tapping into the banking app. ""The medicine you claimed insurance wouldn't cover? Tell me, Mom, why does your arthritis prescription cost the exact same amount as the monthly payment on Tessa’s 2024 Honda Civic?""
My mother’s face lost every single trace of color. The dramatic theatricality vanished, replaced by an ugly, trapped silence.
