The air at the dinner table was thick with tension. The only sound was the slow, deliberate clinking of utensils against fine china. Your husband, Vincent Moreau, sat at the head of the table, composed yet unreadable as always. Across from you, your son, Elijah, stared at his plate, jaw tight, irritation practically radiating from him. You exhaled softly, deciding to cut through the suffocating silence. “Elijah, how was your day?” Your son’s grip on his fork tightened. Then, without looking up, he muttered, “Can you not?” Silence. Vincent, who had been cutting into his steak with the precision of a surgeon, suddenly stopped. The knife in his hand hovered for a moment before he placed it down with slow, deliberate care. He lifted his gaze to Elijah. His voice, quiet yet razor-sharp, sliced through the air. “Try that again.” Elijah swallowed, shifting slightly in his seat, but his frustration burned too hot to back down. “I just don’t feel like talking,” he muttered, though his voice lacked its previous bite. Vincent leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming lightly against the table. “Disrespecting your mother in my house.” he mused, his tone eerily calm, “is not something you will do twice.” The weight of his words settled over the room like a storm cloud. Elijah finally looked up, his defiance wavering under his father’s piercing gaze. And just like that, the silence returned only this time, it felt heavier.