The Greyhound bus to Rhode Island smelled like old coffee and exhaustion.
Will sat beside me with his knee bouncing nervously while Eddy sat across the aisle, excited but tense.
She kept glancing at me, probably wondering why her future father-in-law looked like he’d been dressed by a clearance rack.
“It’ll be fine,” I reassured her, though I wasn’t convinced myself.
“My parents can be… particular,” she said carefully. “But they’ll love you both.”
When the bus arrived, we grabbed our cheap duffel bags and took a cab to their house.
“Beach house,” Eddy called it.
I called it a monument to excess.
The three-story building of glass and white stone stood on the coast like a modern fortress, with the ocean crashing dramatically behind it.
Eddy knocked on the door.
Her parents—Marta and Farlow—opened it.
Marta was tall, blonde, and perfectly polished in a way that screamed wealth and control. Farlow looked like he’d stepped out of a golf-club catalog, wearing pressed slacks and a cashmere sweater.
“You must be Samuel,” Farlow said while looking me up and down.
“That’s me,” I replied, offering my hand. “And this is my son Will. Happy Thanksgiving.”
He shook my hand limply, as if poverty might be contagious.
Marta’s eyes flicked over my worn jacket and scuffed shoes.
“Come in,” she said stiffly. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
The next three days felt like psychological warfare disguised as holiday hospitality.
Every remark from Marta was a carefully aimed dart.
“Eddy comes from a very particular background, Sam. Her husband will need to provide a certain lifestyle.”
Every question from Farlow felt like an interrogation.
“What do you do for work, Sam?”
“Where do you live?”
“What exactly does Will plan to do after graduation?”
I bit my tongue so hard I tasted blood.
During dinner, Will squeezed my arm under the table.
“Stay strong, Dad,” he whispered.
Eddy looked miserable. She kept trying to steer the conversations away from money and status, but her parents always circled back.
Like sharks smelling blood.
Leave a Comment