The Dinner | Short Story

Valentina’s scream cut through the heated arguments at the table. Her siblings and cousins stared at her in shock. The same scene had been repeated at every family reunion since she remembered, back when it was her parents, aunts and uncles pointing fingers at each other and cursing and leaving the room in a rage.

She couldn’t take it anymore. Every detail of her grandmother’s house weighed on her — the grating Christmas music, the bland turkey, the ugly sweaters, the stale smell of her grandmother’s house, and the dim orange light from the only lightbulb that still worked in that dining room.

“This is why I refuse to see you people! And you...” she turned to her grandmother at the head of the table, “you love pitting us against one other, just like you did to our parents!”

The old woman grinned. Decade after decade, she had relished planting small seeds of poison in the hearts of the few people who still visited her. If her house was not filled with the voices of her children and grandchildren laughing at her jokes and enjoying her stories, it would be filled with their screams as they tore each other apart.

“It keeps me young,” the grandmother said, still smiling as she put another slice of fruit cake on her plate.

Thank you for reading Notes from the metro. This post is public so feel free to share it.

Hi, and thanks for reading. This week, a super short one from the archives. I noticed I had a lot of stories with a similar premise (ghosts and the women who love them, basically,) so I dug this one out. I have a couple of new ideas I’m excited to share with you in the next few weeks.

Until next time.