The Night I Flipped the Dinner Table and Shattered My Family

“Using yarn unraveled from Olivia’s old sweater, without even washing it first, and knitting it for me to wear. That’s your idea of being nice?”

I opened a video and turned the screen toward the nearest person, Linda.

In the video, my mother was pulling apart a pink old sweater, muttering to herself:

“Olivia only wore this sweater for one season and already doesn’t want it. Such a waste… fine, I’ll unravel it and knit one for Emily.

“She won’t know the difference anyway. She’ll wear whatever I give her…”

Linda’s face darkened the moment she saw the video.

Before she could say anything, I swiped to the next image. It was a screenshot of a pharmacy receipt, an ordinary anti-allergy cream that cost five dollars.

“When my allergy got bad, I went and bought medicine myself. Do you remember what you told Dad at the time?”

I swiped to the next screenshot. It was a chat record between my mother and father.

“Why buy her medicine? She’s just being dramatic. She’ll get over it if she toughs it out.”

“You unraveled an old sweater and knitted it for me without even washing the yarn. I broke out in rashes from the allergy, and when I wanted medicine, you said it was too expensive and called me dramatic.”

My gaze shifted to my brother, who was still sniffling.

“But what about Henry? Last time he said his face felt a little dry, and the very next day you bought him that bottle of baby cream for sixty dollars. Right?”

My brother seemed to remember the sweet-smelling cream and nodded instinctively.

My mother immediately shot him a fierce glare, frightening him into shrinking his neck.

“Sarah!”

Linda finally couldn’t hold back any longer. She pointed at the chat record on the phone screen.

“Th-this is really what you said? It’s one thing to give the child old yarn to wear, but you wouldn’t even buy her medicine?”

My mother’s face had turned deathly pale, yet she couldn’t force out a single word.

All the relatives in the room stared at her, the doubt and shock in their eyes impossible to hide.

“Alright, alright!”

In the suffocating silence, Grandma let out a heavy sigh and tapped her cane hard against the floor.

A forced smile spread across her face as she tried to change the subject.

“It’s just a sweater. We’re all family. These little things with needles and yarn, let it go. It’s the holidays. Don’t argue anymore.”

She turned to me, her tone soft with a kind of peacekeeping persuasion.

“Emily, your mother may have been wrong, but you can’t forget the good she’s done for you either.

“For example, you loved those sponge cakes she makes since you were little, haven’t you? Just yesterday she made a whole tray for you.”

That remark seemed to remind my mother of something.

She practically sprang up from her chair, nodding repeatedly, her voice hurried and almost exaggerated.

“Yes, yes! The sponge cake! I made it especially for you yesterday! I added so much sugar because I know you like sweet things. You’re the one I care about the most…”

“Sponge cake?”

I cut her off, the corner of my mouth curling into a cold smile.

I turned and walked straight to the refrigerator in the corner of the kitchen, taking out a plate covered with plastic wrap.

I carried it back to the messy dining table and set it down heavily.

Frost had formed on the plastic wrap.

I picked up the only fork on the table that still looked relatively clean and jabbed them into the cake, then pulled hard to the sides.

What appeared inside wasn’t the soft, golden crumb of a fresh sponge cake, but a dull, grayish yellow instead.

A faint, stale oily smell drifted out, mixed with the cold chill of frost.

“When you made this yesterday, I saw this at the very bottom of the kitchen trash can,” I said, setting the fork down and looking straight at my mother.

From a nearby cabinet, I pulled out a crumpled egg carton. A bright clearance sticker was slapped across it, with the production date and expiration date printed clearly on the label.