The Doorbell

The doorbell rang; I'm hiding in the kitchen.   I hear the false voices of family greeting each other.  I hate big family get togethers.  Especially at my mom's house, when she drives my dad an me crazy for days, tells us she needs more help, then decides neither one of us can do anything right.

I hug my aunt, uncle, and cousins, listen to them gush about my kids for a few minutes, and retreat back to the kitchen and food that I've been preparing very slowly for a reason.

It's such a farce.  My oldest cousin, who's my age, thinks he's hot shit because he's a CPA and acts like he knows everything and is smarter than everyone.  There's no discussions with him; just lectures.

The next cousin is a year younger than me.  We got along well as kids, but she's typical ditzy blonde ex-sorority girl who works all day, parties all night, and lives with her head in the clouds.

There's my semi-relatable cousin, who's 5 years younger than me.  He has some issues, but he's good for conversation for a half hour or so, when I get creeped out by him staring at my boobs.

My youngest cousin is 16 and an angry teenager.  She talks to no one, sitting silently with her ipod.

My aunt is fake nice, as long as everything is going her way.  I can't stand it.  She wears the pants in the family, and her husband and kids seem to defer to her.

My uncle thinks he's more important than he is.  A big shot CFO at a fortune 500 company with the wife, kids, houses, rental properties, and golf skills.  Oh, and a standing in the community because of his work with his church and as a basketball coach.

The 5 years we didn't speak to each other because of my uncle's affair sits like a gorilla in the room as the snow begins to fall.

This post was written in response to this week's Red Writing Hood prompt from Write on Edge. 
We’d like you to craft a piece of fiction or creative non-fiction around the holiday season, keeping in mind that for some people “the holiday season” begins around Halloween and doesn’t end until well after the New Year is underway.  The piece should begin with “The doorbell rang” and end with “snow began to fall.”

The Last Solo Bar Trip

The door slammed with a thud. "Get out here!" she screamed, "I want my daughter now!"

Rubbing his bloodshot eyes, he staggered out of the bedroom. "What is your problem?"

"I am not the one with the problem!  Give me my damn daughter, I am taking her away from you!"

"No, it's 4am and she's my daughter too."

"But I didn't go out and cheat on you! And stay out all night!  And not even answer one goddamn phone call!"

"What the fuck! I didn't cheat on you, and I didn't hear my phone because I was beatboxing with the band."

"You were out with a girl! At a bar! While I was sitting home, 7 months pregnant with your third baby!" Her screams dissolved into sobs.  "I hate you!"

"I was not!"

"Don't lie! My sister texted me that the stupid horse bitch you were out with texted her that you two were going to the bar!"

"And you're going to believe your sister why? She likes to start drama."

"I had a friend go to the bar to make sure!  I wanted to believe you were out with your friend from Queens!  But you lied!  He saw you together, and people have been telling me shit about you all  night!  And then you don't answer the phone? Fuck you!"

"You had someone spy on me?" he stared at her, incredulous.

"You think you can go to my fucking town and people won't tell me what's going on?  All those guys you think are your friends, they would give you up in a second to me.  They have my back, not like you.  If I wanted, I could have had someone beat the shit out of you as soon as you stepped outside that bar! I want my daughter, asshole!"

The slap to his face resounded throughout the now silent room. Grabbing the sleepy toddler, she slammed the door as hard as possible, burying her tears in the child's pajamas.

This post was written in response to this week's RemembeRED prompt from Write on Edge. Recreate a pivotal conversation with us this week. Remember, this is memoir. You can only record what was actually said. Save the bon mots and imagined snappy retorts for fiction.