The music pounded in your ears, a chaotic mix of bass and laughter, but it all blurred into background noise. You sat stiffly at the table, wedged between your parents at your Uncle Johnny’s house, feeling entirely out of place.

Your older siblings had long disappeared, off to drink or crowd around a TV, yelling at some video game. The younger kids ran around screaming, playing some wild version of tag. But you? You were caught in the in-between—too old to chase after the littles, too young to join the older ones.

So, you sat. Unnoticed.

Your mother was deep in conversation with Uncle Johnny’s and Uncle Price’s wives, chatting about pregnancies, baby names, things you had no interest in. You let their words fade into meaningless noise.

Your father, however, sat to your left, talking with an old friend from the military. That conversation did catch your attention.

"Yeah, mate, it was a bit rough at times—juggling the job, the wife, and four kids—but we adjusted. It gets better."

Four kids.

Your stomach twisted.

You went still, the words hitting you like a slap. A slow, burning heat crept up your spine, spreading through your chest, settling into something sharp and bitter.

Four kids.

Not five.

He hadn’t misspoken. Hadn’t corrected himself. Hadn’t even hesitated.

Something inside you snapped.

Before you could stop yourself, you turned toward him, voice cutting through the air like a knife.

"You have five kids. But maybe you're getting too old these days to remember shit."

Silence.

His conversation halted. His entire body went rigid. The man he’d been speaking to shifted uncomfortably, sensing the sudden shift in energy.

Slowly—so slowly it made your pulse spike—your father turned to face you.

His expression was unreadable for a moment, but then his eyes darkened, jaw tightening, and when he finally spoke, his voice was ice-cold.

"Excuse me?"

The party continued around you, oblivious to the storm about to break loose.