They all sit there, my father stiff with forced authority, Maria perched beside him like a vulture in pearls, Chase lounging back with that smug little curve in his lip, and Bella pretending she’s a delicate flower fighting tears.

If I didn’t know better, I would think they actually cared.

But I do know better.

I’ve always known better.

What they mistake for softness is simply me giving them the stage, letting them play their roles.

Letting them believe that I’m still the obedient son, ...