Chapter 5
Before the cousin could decide whether to move or fight, a feral roar echoed from the back of the living room.
The Grandfather, who had been simmering in a rage-fueled silence since his first projectile missed its mark, had reached his boiling point. He was sixty-seven years old, dressed in a sharp button-up shirt, expensive trousers, and a heavy leather belt, but his fair, rosy face had turned a dangerous, apoplectic shade of purple.
"You disrespect this house!" the Grandfather bellowed, his voice ragged with years of unchecked authority and bourbon.
The Father turned his head just in time to see the older man snatch another heavy drinking glass off a nearby cocktail table. The Grandfather raised it high above his head, his eyes wild, preparing to hurl it right at the Father’s back—right where Rosie was clinging to him.
"Dad, no!" one of the aunts screamed.
This time, the family didn't stand by. As the Grandfather brought his arm forward, three of the male relatives lunged. Two cousins tackled his arms, while an uncle grabbed him around the waist. The glass slipped from the Grandfather’s hand, crashing harmlessly onto a Persian rug, spilling amber liquid and ice everywhere.
"Get your hands off me!" the Grandfather roared, struggling violently against the men holding him back. He kicked out, his polished shoes scuffing the floor, his button-up shirt tearing slightly at the collar as he fought like a rabid dog. "I'll kill him! I'll kill that ungrateful little bastard! He comes into my house and calls my daughter a liar!"
The foyer descended into absolute pandemonium. The relatives were shouting, trying to restrain the patriarch, while the Grandmother shrieked hysterically, clutching her face. Bethany stood by the wall, rubbing her wrist, her eyes darting toward the door, realizing the situation had entirely spiraled out of her control.
The Father stood at the edge of the hallway, watching the chaotic struggle. He shielded Rosie's ears with his broad hand, pressing her head firmly into his chest so she wouldn't have to see her grandfather thrashing like a madman.
"Look at him," the Father said, his voice slicing cleanly through the shouting. He directed his words to the relatives holding the old man back. "Look at the man you're protecting. He was just about to throw a glass at a four-year-old’s back. Is this the family you want to defend?"
The men struggling with the Grandfather didn't answer, but the shame in their eyes was evident. They tightened their grip, forcing the older man back into a heavy armchair, pinning him down despite his curses.
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"He's drunk," the Grandmother sobbed, attempting to play the victim once more. "He doesn't know what he's doing! You drove him to this!"
"I drove him to nothing," the Father replied coldly. "This is who he has always been. This is who you all are. But you are never, ever going to touch my child again."
