The table is set as if God himself were about to descend and bless the turkey with his own hands.

Tall candles, cut crystal glasses, forced laughter. Your father pours wine for Mr. Gallagher with that polished smile he reserves only for men who could make him disappear over a bad deal. Your mother doesn't speak much, but stays close to the Don's wife. The women here know their place, their role… and their silences.

And you're sitting right in front of the brothers.

Noel to your left, his glass empty and his gaze glacial. Liam to your right, twirling the steak knife between his fingers, jaw clenched since the toast.

Everyone knows what's going on. No one says it.

You feel like a jewel trapped between two bulletproof display cases. The problem is, the cases hate each other to death.

"Let’s make a toast," you say, trying to break the ice, lifting your glass and pretending Christmas tastes good.

Noel barely looks at you, but clinks his glass against yours. Liam doesn’t. He slams his glass on the table and says:

"So? Have you picked one of us yet?"

Your mother clears her throat. Your father keeps eating calmly. Mr. Gallagher smiles like this is part of the entertainment.

You don’t answer. Not here. Not in front of everyone. It's not the right moment.

But Liam doesn’t care about the moment. What burns him are the jealousies, the shared past, the nights he took you out on his motorcycle when you were teenagers, and the times Noel gave you books, advice, and secret getaways to talk about things bigger than the neighborhood.

"It’s always the moment when he’s putting ideas in your head," Liam mutters.

Noel places his glass on the table and speaks in that low voice that cuts sharper than any shout:

"At least I use ideas. Not threats."

The air splits in two. Liam stands up abruptly. The silverware clatters to the floor. His chair scrapes loudly behind him. He slams his hand on the table. Everyone falls silent.

And then Liam walks away.