The Keys On The Table
A hand pressed a ring of metal keys flat against the polished dark wood of the hallway table. The young man lifted his fingers, stepping back into the warm glow of the foyer.
His father remained standing a few feet away, hands tucked low, his jacket zipped against the evening chill outside. Between them, near the arched doorway leading into the dining room, a young woman stood completely motionless, her arms hanging rigid at her sides.
The father lowered his chin slightly, his gaze fixed on the brass keys reflecting the lamplight. “Hand them over, Dad,” the son said, his posture upright in his tailored suit jacket.
The older man did not reach for the ring. His jaw hardened, lines deepening across his forehead as he kept his eyes locked on his son’s face. “Is this how you treat your own family?” he asked, his voice low and steady.
A Hotel Room Downtown
The son adjusted his collar slightly, his chin lifting. “We booked a room for you downtown,” he said, his delivery direct and even.
Across the hall, the father took half a step forward, closing part of the distance between them. His eyes narrowed slightly as he held his ground in front of the console table.
“And who covered that cost?” the father asked. His hand remained hooked by his zipper, not making any move toward the tabletop.
Behind them, the young woman shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She looked down toward the floorboards, her lips pressed into a tight, thin seam, refusing to meet either man’s eyes.
The son kept his gaze fixed ahead, maintaining his upright stance. Neither man reached for the keys resting under the lamp.
Reaching Into The Jacket
The older man slowly unzipped the front of his dark canvas coat. He reached inside the interior pocket, his fingers emerging with a crisp, folded white document.
He did not speak right away. He extended his arm and slapped the paper directly onto the table, covering the keys completely.
The son leaned forward, his brow furrowing as he reached down to pick up the folded sheet. He smoothed open the crease, his eyes scanning across the typed lines at the top of the page.
His father kept one hand resting firmly against the wooden edge of the console table. “This house is in my name,” the older man said, his words cutting cleanly across the quiet foyer. “You leave tomorrow.”
Turning Toward The Door
The young man held the paper loosely in his grip, his eyes remaining fixed on the black print near the center of the page. His shoulders dropped half an inch as his fingers tightened on the edge of the sheet.
The young woman remained near the base of the staircase, her fingers curling against the fabric of her dark dress. She stared toward the foyer floor without moving a step closer.
The father removed his hand from the table, turned on his heel, and walked past the staircase down the main corridor. The son stood motionless beside the lamp, holding the opened paper in both hands.
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