Chapter 2 - The Empty Bags of Entitlement
Neither woman carried anything for the meal. No drinks. No dessert. No salad. No side dish. Not even a bag of ice or a pack of paper napkins. However, it quickly became clear that they had not arrived empty-handed at all—they had simply packed with a very different objective in mind.
Rachel carried a large designer canvas tote bag filled to the brim with plastic storage containers of various shapes and sizes. Stella carried another heavy plastic shopping bag that rattled with loose plastic lids and Tupperware every time she took a step.
Rachel leaned forward, giving me a dry, perfunctory air-kiss near my cheek. “Betty, everything smells wonderful out here. You must have spent hours.”
Stella glanced around our entryway, her nose twitching slightly as her eyes swept over our family photographs and antique side table. “Your home is... very cozy, Betty. So much history in one little space.”
The way she said it made “cozy” sound less like a warm compliment and more like a subtle judgment about how dated and cramped everything looked compared to her own newly renovated suburban McMansion. I swallowed the sharp retort rising in my throat, pasted on a polite grandmotherly smile, and led them through the house toward the bustling backyard patio.
Tom proudly lifted the heavy lid of the smoker, letting a thick, fragrant cloud of hickory smoke roll out into the sunny Texas air.
“Look at this beauty!” Tom announced, beaming with pride. “Betty bought thirty-three pounds of prime meat for everyone today. We’re going to feast like kings!”
Rachel and Stella immediately exchanged a sharp, knowing glance. What I saw flashing across their faces in that split second was not gratitude, appreciation, or even polite surprise.
It was pure, unadulterated calculation.
“Thirty-three pounds?” Rachel said with a bright, ringing laugh that felt entirely artificial. “Well, then it’s lucky we brought our containers!”
She smiled dazzlingly, tossing her long dark hair over her shoulder. “We certainly wouldn’t want any of that expensive meat to go to waste, right Mom?”
“Oh, absolutely not,” Stella agreed, nodding firmly. “With the cost of groceries these days, leaving food behind is practically a sin.”
Lunch had not even begun. The guests hadn’t even taken their seats, yet they were already treating my kitchen like a wholesale warehouse liquidation sale. I kept silent, telling myself to be the bigger person, not wanting to start a fight before the plates were even handed out.
We all sat down at the long patio table as Erica and Louisa began serving the food. But the atmosphere had shifted, growing heavy and tense. Throughout the meal, Stella and Rachel made sure everyone knew they were doing us a massive favor by gracing our patio with their presence.
Stella looked out toward my carefully tended flower beds and commented loudly that they appeared terribly neglected, suggesting I needed to hire a professional landscaping service. Rachel described my late mother’s embroidered lace tablecloth—which I only brought out for special family occasions—as “charmingly vintage, in a thrift-store sort of way.”
They complained about the food, too. They loudly declared that the sausages were far too smoky for their refined palates, the garlic potatoes were too heavy on the seasoning, and the brisket was a little too dry, as if they were professional food critics reviewing a failing diner.
Yet, despite their endless criticisms, neither woman stopped eating. In fact, they ate with the enthusiasm of starving wolves. They finished everything on their plates within minutes and immediately stood up to return for generous second portions, piling their plates high with the finest cuts of brisket, burnt ends, and beef ribs.
While everyone else was quietly conversing, Rachel picked up her plate of premium ribs, arranged the meat artistically in the bright afternoon sunlight, lifted her smartphone, and snapped several photos. She began tapping furiously on her screen, posting it to her social media followers as though she had spent the entire morning standing over a hot grill cooking the feast herself.
Julian remained sitting beside her, his shoulders tense and rigid, staring down fixedly at his plate like a schoolboy dreading a reprimand from the teacher. He didn't look up once to defend his mother, nor did he check his wife’s insulting remarks about our home.
Once everyone had finished eating and the afternoon sun began to dip lower in the sky, Rachel leaned back in her chair, patted her mouth delicately with a paper napkin, and surveyed the remaining serving platters on the table. There was still a massive amount of food left—brisket, ribs, steaks, and sides—which was precisely what I had planned so we could send everyone home with a modest, loving care package of leftovers.
“Well,” Rachel announced loudly, clapping her hands together. “There is absolutely no way all of this food will be eaten by just the two of you.”
Stella nodded in agreement, leaning forward with a self-satisfied smirk. “It would be financially irresponsible and frankly terrible to let such expensive meat go to waste in an empty refrigerator.”
Then Rachel turned her gaze directly toward my son.
“Bring the bags over here, babe,” Rachel commanded, snapping her fingers lightly.
Julian stood up from the table immediately. He did not hesitate. He did not ask me whether it was all right, nor did he show a single flicker of hesitation or embarrassment. He walked over to the kitchen counter, picked up both massive canvas tote bags filled with plastic containers, and carried them directly to the head of the patio table.
Rachel and Stella unzipped the bags with clinical efficiency. They began pulling out container after container—some small square tubs, others deep rectangular Tupperware bins large enough to hold several complete family dinners.
May you like
Then Julian picked up the heavy stainless-steel serving tongs.
Without looking me in the eye, my only son began filling their plastic containers to the absolute brim. He didn't take the leftovers or the scraps; he bypassed the side dishes entirely and scooped up the absolute finest, most expensive cuts of brisket, the thickest beef ribs, and the choice skirt steaks—taking nearly eighty percent of all the remaining meat I had purchased, seasoned, and lovingly cooked for the entire family.
