Chapter 1: The Upholstery Caste System
My thirty-two-year-old sister removed her leather loafer and hurled it like a crude ballistic missile at my seven-month pregnant wife.
The offense? My wife had dared to sit in my sister’s designated chair at our parents’ house.
My father, Ron, threw his head back and let out a genuine, deep-bellied laugh. “Pregnancy hormones,” he chuckled, slapping his denim-covered knee. “Everybody just relax.”
My mother, Linda, wiped her hands on a floral dish towel, looked over the scene, and delivered the sentence that permanently fractured our family. “Clare, honey,” she cooed, her voice saturated with weaponized Midwestern sweetness. “Maybe just sit on the floor next time. You know how she gets about that chair.”
My wife, Clare, rose slowly, her face an expression of terrifying, icy calm. Without saying a word, she reached for her wool coat.
I grabbed my car keys.
Then I pulled my phone from my pocket.
