“Write a scene set around a table. Communicate each character’s emotions only through how they interact with food.” ( July 4, 2026, Molly Aitken.)

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Ethan Porter spears his ribeye and carves into it, barely ripping his gaze from it as his daughter Frances speaks in hushed tones. Frances had returned home from college the night before. He crams a bite of the thick chunk of meat into his mouth, chewing noisily.

Frances swishes a bit of the dry Merlot in her mouth before dragging her fork around on the plate, moving around a few pieces of wilted spinach. She glances up. “Mother,” she says, her voice nearly a whisper. “I have something to tell you.”

Ethan gulps down his gigantic bite and belches. “Whatever you have to say, you can tell both of us.”

Frances’ eyes dart over to her father. Gingerly, she scrapes a tiny bite of potato and chews it. She nods, swallowing the morsel. “Of course.”

Her father continues to shovel more food into his mouth, chuckling to himself. As he loads his fork with meat, he urges Frances with a grunt, “Go on.”

Frances glances at her mother. The girl, lost in thought, drops a small spinach leaf onto her tongue and closes her eyes briefly.

Jessica, Frances’ mother, cuts her ribeye into cubes and when she is certain neither her daughter nor Ethan are paying attention, slips the steak pieces underneath the table to their hungry beagle, Juniper. As soon as she sees Ethan’s beady eyes flash in her direction, she snaps to attention and devours her ribeye with a forced smile.

Then, her wan grin intact, she turns to her daughter. “What is it, doll? You said you had something to tell us.”

Frances sighs and drops another bite of potatoes into her mouth. She chews them silently. She doesn’t speak.

Finally, Jessica breaks the quiet. “It’s not your…” She hesitates. Things like this are hard to bring up. Sensitive. “You’re not…” She pauses again. “Are you… are you in any kind of trouble?” Jessica finally asks, chewing her ribeye so carefully it looks as though she is chewing gum.

Frances’ mouth drops open. A bit of spinach clings to the gap between her front teeth. Had her fourteen-year-old brother Lucas been home, he would have either laughed at her or pointed it out.

Instead, the silence is spectacularly loud.

Finally, she dabs her mouth with a napkin and shakes her head. “No, Mother,” Frances responds firmly, “I’m not in trouble.”

“Then what is it?” Ethan booms, grabbing his bourbon glass and chugging it down as though it were cheap cola — not an expensive liquor.

“Is there any dessert?” Frances asks, glancing away.

“What the hell is going on?” Ethan demands, rising from his seat.

“Daddy, please.” Frances gazes up at him, a bit of ribeye still dangling from her dinner fork.

Jessica, who has been feeding Juniper scraps, glances over at her husband. His face is red and puffy with anger, and his hand is still clenched around the glass. He stabs the ribeye with his fork and bites into it, ripping into it with his teeth and glaring at his family.

“It’s nothing really,” Frances insists, “but I have switched majors.”

Ethan’s eyes bulge out, and his already ruddy face goes more scarlet. His cough is harsh and brash — more of a bark than a cough. When he finally stops coughing, Frances tells them, “I’m no longer studying political science. I’m majoring in Art History.”

Ethan’s head slumps down, the bite of ribeye dislodges and his eyes roll back in his head, watery, unfocused. He rasps out a few mumbled words, then tries again. On his second attempt, they’re more clear but still muddled.

“It doesn’t matter,” he chokes out, slouching forward, “you’ll always be a failure to me.” With one final gasping breath, he falls face-first into what’s left of his mangled steak and mashed potatoes.

Quietly, Jessica stands up and gets a cloth napkin to wipe the meal from her dead husband’s face.

The rest of the dinner is silent.

Isabelle Palerma

This short story is entirely my own content – no A.I. used to create this.