Before the First Light — Rira Hakimelahi
Central Park was one of the biggest areas of nature that Tara knew about in the city. It wasn’t the most natural thing in the world, sure, it was mainly man made, but it was the most she could find.
Alex had told her he wanted to walk there. She couldn’t blame him, after all he’d been trapped in a lab all these years; the poor guy probably needed more than a bit of fresh air. They’d met for the first time in OXE tower just two months prior. It hadn’t been a long time, but it was longer than most of her friendships.
They stood at a cross walk together when Alex abruptly said.
“That’s a pigeon, right?” He pointed over at a pigeon that sat on the yellow spray painted concrete just six feet away from them. Tara looked up at him and squeezed his hand.
“Yeah, that’s a pigeon.”
Alex’s eyebrows furrowed together before saying in a completely serious tone, “He looks like he should be wearing a bowler hat.” He nodded to himself as if this was a reasonable thing one would say when seeing a pigeon.
“Maybe he should be.” She shrugged before she pulled him across the street with her when the walking light turned on. His hand tightened around hers, his eyes darted around the street in a panic.
“The cars aren’t gonna hit us, right?!” He started to pull himself back towards the curb but Tara still dragged him forwards.
“They’re not gonna hit us, look, the park is just there. You can make it a few more steps.” She motioned to the open gates of the park. He took a breath as the crosswalk counted down until they had to be on the other side. Finally he nodded to her and they finished the walk to the other side of the street. His eyes had been closed the whole time, and he let her lead him blindly into the park. It was odd to her, having to explain the concept of walking to a 25 year old man, but it was what had to be done if he ever wanted to do press conferences for the team.
“This is a park?” He tilted his head to the side as he looked around at the park, and he just froze. He stared at the lake and the kids with their little remote control boats, his eyes widened with awe. But Tara couldn’t see it, at least not what he saw.
All Tara saw was a boring old park with brownish-green grass, the leaves were dull, and many of the kids were shouting at their parents to have their phones back. The Alice in Wonderland statue stood lonely, not a single kid to climb it in sight like they used to when she was a kid.
Before OXE boarding school.
“Yeah, this is a park, not much to see-” But he cut her off as he ran over to the lake to look at the ducks and see his reflection in the water. “Alex, wait up!” She shouted while she ran after him.
She’d been given one condition to take him out of the OXE tower, that she wouldn’t lose him.
“That’s a duck! I saw those on the TV! That’s a duck right?! It has to be a duck!” He reached his hand out into the lake to try to touch the ducks. The birds flew away in a startled manner while some of the people nearby gave him a weird look.
“Yeah, those are ducks.” She put her hand on his shoulder to calm him down; the brown ducks flew away. They weren’t even the green ones that you see once in a blue moon. They were just regular ducks, another creature on this earth, and that’s what they’d always be.
“Why did they go away?” He blinked a few times, confused, before he looked back down at his hands. “Did I hurt them?” He whispered to her in a feeble voice, his gaze still focused on his hands that could in one simple moment cause more pain than she had in her entire life.
“You didn’t hurt them. They’re just scared, that’s all.” Tara shrugged and put her sweater covered hands over his. His hands were warm and they felt as if she was holding her hands close to a fire.
“Oh…” Alex tore his eyes away from his hands and looked down at her with a soft sadness in his eyes. “Why would they be scared of me?”
“Alex, they’re much smaller than you. If you were that small, wouldn’t you be scared if a guy ten times your height ran at you?”
“I guess so.” He sighed then let go of her hands and looked over at the lake. He looked a bit behind her and his eyes suddenly lit up.
“What’s that?” Tara turned around to see the Alice in Wonderland Statue in its full bronze glory. It looked lonely over there with no kids climbing it.
“Oh that’s the Alice in Wonderland Statue. I used to climb on it a lot as a kid, before OXE took me.” She took his hand again, and they started to walk around the lake towards the statue.
“You used to climb on the statue? Isn’t that a bad thing to do?” His eyebrows furrowed and he looked down at her.
“I mean no one really cares much if people are climbing on it. It’s just an old statue. I used to try to climb and sit on Alice’s lap, or on her shoulders. But my favorite was in the tree part with the Cheshire cat.”
“But it’s not a play structure, it’s a statue. Why would you use something so pretty as a playground?” He scrunched his nose up in what she thought was confusion.
Tara couldn’t see what was so pretty about the statue.
Nothing about it gave her the idea that it was pretty like it did for Alex. Her opinion on it hadn’t changed since she was seven, it was just as creepy now as it was then. The Mad Hatter looked like he was an ugly short version of Willy Wonka who ate people instead of chocolate, and the Cheshire cat had an unsettling smile from upon its metal tree. Nothing about it screamed beauty; it was just another ugly statue of a beautiful story, like most of its kind.
“It’s just a thing with this statue. Come on, it’s fun if you try it.” She ran up to the statue and tried to climb onto the mushroom base.
She could remember being seven and climbing here, putting in all her strength to swing herself up onto the metal tree. But with seventeen years of combat training, it had become a second nature. OXE had made her like that, and she knew they’d make worse of Alex. That was all that government organizations that hid their tracks did, turn innocent people into monsters.
Once she reached the top and stabilized herself, she looked down to find-
Oh shit, where did he go?
“Alex?” Tara called out, she prepared herself to jump off the statue and go find him.
“I’m here!” She heard his voice from under the metal mushroom cap. “There’s a freaking metal baby crocodile! How cool is that?! Is this normal for statues?!” He exclaimed and stuck his head out from under the statue. Tara let out a sigh of relief.
“Uh, yeah, it’s normal for it to have details.” She turned her body around so she could look down at him. Her long wavy brown hair fell over her face and she flashed him an awkward smile. She couldn’t begin to imagine how stupid she looked up there.
“That’s so cool!” He went back under the cap. Once she was sure he wasn’t going to just disappear on her again, Tara closed her eyes, and she tried to feel the joy she’d once felt here as a child. But all it felt like was being on another random landmark during a mission. The differences being she was here for fun and wasn’t holding a sniper.
The wind was the same and the fear of falling remained. But if she lost her balance while taking the shot she would fall…
And fall…
And fall….
Until she was just a mush of flesh and broken bones at the bottom of a famous landmark….
She shook her head and blinked a few times in an attempt to snap herself out of it.
This isn’t a mission, you’re just on a kiddie statue. You’re fine.
She forced herself to move past it and focus on the statue itself. There was nothing that made her heart spark with the first rays of curiosity. It was just another day in New York City, just that now she had free time and Alex was with her.
“This statue smells like a penny.” Alex commented from the ground below her. Tara opened her eyes to look down at him.
“It’s made of bronze, bronze smells like copper.” She answered simply while she leaned on the Cheshire Cat. He started to climb the statue to sit on Alice’s shoulders. She watched as he did, she paid attention to every movement. An irrational fear took over her that he’d fall, but deep down she knew he’d be fine.
“Huh, I didn’t know that.” Alex wrapped his arms around Alice’s head and placed his chin on top of it. “And you’re saying you got to see this whenever you wanted as a kid?”
“I mean yeah, I did. It was nice at first. But the more I went it kinda got boring.” She pulled her baby pink cardigan closer to her body as a gust of wind hit them. “Looking back, I wish I’d asked to go more back then.”
“I don’t think it’s boring. If I’m gonna be honest, this was the best day of my life.” Tara glanced over at him, her heart heavy with pity. Alex’s gaze was stuck on the sunset, his eyes wide with awe.
“I’m sure you’ll have better days. Soon this will seem like the most average thing ever. All we did was go to the park.” He finally looked over at her.
“I don’t want it to. I don’t want to see things the way you do,” he whispered and his dark blue eyes looked down at her through his slightly grown out brown hair.
“What do you mean the way I see things?”
“I don’t understand you, I mean look around,” He gestured to the almost empty park; the dying grass, the ducks, the leafless trees, and the cracked cement walkway. “How can you look at all this and not feel anything? How do you not see how amazing it is? I don’t want to get so used to a world this beautiful to the point where it looks boring to me. Don’t pretend you understand, you and I both know you don’t.” Alex stopped to let out a tired sigh.
Tara could see all the years of being locked up in a padded room in OXE’s lab reflected in his eyes. Captivity, experiments, loss of memory, all sixteen years of it was all on display for her just in a single tired expression. Her heart felt like it got ripped apart just looking at him.
“Tara, did you know this is my first time at a park in sixteen years?” She could feel her hands start to shake.
“No, I didn’t.” She whispered and closed her eyes. It was difficult to imagine a world where all she’d known were white walls and syringes full of propofol. But that was his reality, and it scared her.
“I don’t think you- or anyone really -know what life is really about. It’s like you forgot. You don’t remember what it’s like to live. I didn’t when I was nine and they took me. I don’t want to ever take it for granted, never again. Not when I know I could lose it.” His eyes were shiny with unshed tears and then he just closed them. Tara leaned over to put a hand on his knee.
“Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” They both sat there in silence for a bit. She tried to think how he could, to see how beautiful the park was besides decaying nature. But she couldn’t get it. She couldn’t reach far enough into her mind and find the seven year old Tara who could see the world for how beautiful it was. All she saw was a park dying and preparing for winter.
“We should head back, my curfew is seven.” He finally spoke up.
They started to walk back together in silence, their footsteps matched one another. All of a sudden Tara got pushed aside as a little girl with wavy brown hair accidentally ran into her before she sprinted to the Alice in Wonderland statue. A moment later the girl’s younger brother ran after her and they began to climb the statue, they bickered with one another over who could climb the highest while their mom warned them to be careful.
Tara stopped to watch the children climb the statue and Alex had stopped with her. She watched as the little girl in the magenta coat climbed up the statue and took her place on the Cheshire Cat’s tree.
“Maman! Look how high I climbed!”
“‘Joohnam,’ sweetie, please be careful. You don’t want to break your arm again!” Her mother had called to her and the girl’s younger brother had crawled over to sit on Alice’s lap with the small statue of a Dinah the Cat. Finally, it came to Tara like the first light. Seeing the joy in that little girl’s face and watching her be so excited, it gave Tara hope. The world was far from regular for that little girl, maybe it didn’t have to be for her either. She could be used to the world, but she could still look for more. Look for happy little moments like this. She walked over to Alex and put her hand in his.
“Come on, let’s go. We’re late anyways.” His eyes trailed from the kids on the statue over to her, and he gave her a small smile.
“Yeah, let’s go before James decides to start writing his lecture about being late.” He laughed a bit and she laughed along too.
As they continued their walk back to OXE tower, she couldn’t help but notice how beautiful the grass was with the red leaves decorating it. The duck from earlier was back on the pond, this time it swam with its family. Only now did she notice how special each and every one of their feather patterns were to each duck. They weren’t boring, quite the contrary, she just had to look a bit deeper to see how pretty each of them really were.
They walked out of the park gate, and the pink lighting from the sunset coated the street in a rosy glow. A pigeon stood near a hot dog stand on the other side of the street, probably just waiting for someone to drop some bread for it.
Tara looked up at Alex who looked down at her.
“Still the best day ever?” She asked simply and let a small smile take over her pink painted lips.
“Yeah, it is.”
“You know what I think?” Tara prompted as they stepped onto the sidewalk on the other side of the street. He raised an eyebrow and flashed her a loopy smile.
“What?”
“Pigeons really do look like they would be wearing bowler hats.”
Rira is a fiction author who currently spends her time writing short stories in hopes of writing a novel. Her publications include "Before the First Light". She can't wait to publish more stories from her desk in Massachusetts.
The Balilla Boy — Catherine Ste-Marie
My Matta has seen better days. The cranks are noisy, and the windows don't roll all the way down. The seats are patched where the sun has eaten through the seams, and the leather on the driver's seat is slightly discoloured. The scent of chestnuts fills the car, prompting me to look out at the rolling hills and the rows of brittle cypress that line the road. It takes two hours to drive from the city to the countryside. I pass a shrine, one of those whitewashed pillars with a cracked tile of the Madonna, and I slow without meaning to. I got on the road about an hour ago, and it feels like I couldn’t be farther from home.
Gravel pops beneath the tires, and the engine sputters. I pull into the driveway, remove the key from the ignition, and take off my sunglasses. I cautiously climb the steps to the old oak door, the wood cleared of varnish. This style of house is no longer built; grand houses like these are only found in the countryside. I hear the scurry of rats, which makes it clear I’ve invaded their nest. I wipe my feet on the carpet and my brow with my sleeve. The stairs to the second floor cascade into the entrance, a symmetrical arrangement with a dirty, faded red carpet. I leave the foyer as the curtains shift with a draft, letting light in through the dusty window. When I walk into the living room, I cover my face with my hat, not wanting to inhale filth.
The wallpaper had bubbled where the heat of summer pressed against it, leaving veins of deeper red underneath. A clock still ticks, however, half an hour slow. My coughs and the ticking are the only sounds; the rats must have returned to their nest. The room was once filled with lamps with thick shades, shelves of old books, and ornate moulding that adorned the chandelier’s medallion; now, dust covers the once-vibrant, floral upholstered chairs. The windows are cracked from the strife of winter, and suddenly the panes start to rattle against the frame, the putty disintegrated. It has been months since I received the telegram informing me of my inheritance of the property. Removing my gloves, I pick up a glass ashtray, the only item in this room that is not smashed or shattered. I look at old photographs and rosaries, polish them with my cuff, and decide to move on.
The kitchen looks different from the way it used to. Dishes are broken, the cabinet doors hang by their hinges, and the copper cups and steel pans have corroded, offering a patina to the dim room. The green wallpaper has peeled, and mould has grown around the tiles lining the floor. I remember being barely able to look over the counter as dinner was being made.
She hummed while she cooked.
“Take your shoes off, no dirt in the house,” she says. I run to the entry, take off my shoes, place them on the carpet, and run back. “What are you making?” I walk over to the counter and peer at the dough in her hands. We’ve had soup for the past week, and I get excited since it seems like she is making pasta, so I ask again. She shoos me away. “Go clean up, and then we will eat,” she says. I rush off to my room to change while she stores the flour and sugar.
I pass from the kitchen to the dining room through a small hallway. Glass crunches underfoot, and the floorboards creak from the weight of my boots. Velvet curtains once hung from the walls, covering the arched windows; the sun hurt Grandmother’s eyes. I hear the tick of the clock from the living room.
I run in, chased by my sister and sit down, eager to eat. We’d returned from another day of playing and swimming in the lake, as we often did. “Come inside, lunch is ready,” she had told us from the porch, but we were having too much fun, and I didn't want to go inside. “We eat together or not at all,” she says. She appears from the kitchen carrying the soup tureen like a reliquary. She is the cook and the oldest, so she eats first. I grow impatient and take a sip before she does.
She tells me to stand beside the table as she and my sister eat. After they finish, she invites me to sit back down, though the soup is cold and there is no more bread. I am upset because I have often seen her give bread to the people who come to our door.
I circle the table and picture the candles flickering on the chandelier, how long it’s been since we’d sat down together. Despite being alone, I look around, and I decide to undo my jacket and loosen my tie. I check my watch and see that it's almost noon. I have to start my return within the next hour or so.
I head upstairs using the rail to pull me up. I injured my leg last week on patrol; while it didn't prevent me from doing my duty, it’s been a hassle to drag around. I reach the top of the stairs and turn left into my old room. The room is smaller than I remembered, and so are the toys that litter the floor. My bed, however, looks like it did when I left, unmade and dirty. The posters are gone, but the outlines remain.
One morning, I wake up to her, her body hunched over me like a scary fable, tearing them from the wall, taking my soldiers and stealing my knife. I rush out of bed to confront her, my body feeling elastic and my eyes dry from sleep. She says, “You're not old enough to understand what these things mean, so you're not old enough to have them.”
I refute, “I need that knife, it's not yours to take, and neither are my posters or my soldiers,” She answers me with a glare. I left late that morning, scrambling to find my bag. I walk, brooding, as my ire has time to fester. I kick stones and glare at the wildlife. On my way to camp each day, I pass a shrine — whitewashed pillars with a cracked tile of the Madonna — and stop to pray on scabbed knees, muttering words from a breviary. On that day, I decided to walk past it. After dinner, Grandma sits in the living room and beckons me to enter. She hands me back my knife, but not my soldiers or posters. She doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. I sulk all the way to my room and hide the knife in my drawer. Now, I approach my bedside table and open my drawer to see that the knife is still there.
My sister’s door is closed, and I see light peeking through the crack under the door. I decide not to go in. Instead, I continue down the narrow hallway. Passing the bathroom, I glance at the mirror, the reflection distorting my face, and I walk on towards Grandmother's room.
I take off my boots before entering, stalling and struggling in the hallway. She never allowed any dust to collect, and it seems it hasn't in her absence. The beige sheets that drape the bed still hold the pillows adorned in tassels that she sewed herself. They match the curtains and the tapestry that hangs on the walls. I walk to the window, peer out at the lake, and notice that the room no longer smells like her.
I wasn't allowed to enter her room as a kid, but when she went to the market or was downstairs reading, I would sneak in. The room was plain compared to the lavish style of the first floor. The most expensive item was likely the ebony dresser, pressed against the wall opposite the door. However, her most prized possession was the dress form, always draped in fabric. The first time I ventured into her room, the mannequin was in a very elaborate gown that seemed out of place. Now the mannequin has mere scraps covering its canvas frame.
It felt eerie being there, as if she were in the room with me. It is well past time for me to head back. As I step over the uneven floorboards, I see the trap door in the ceiling. I put on my boots and pull on the string, and it takes me a few moments to climb up. I duck as I enter the attic and see boxes and boxes of old clothing and toys. I remember playing up here in the attic when I was little.
As I explore further into the mountain of items, I see my old uniform on top of a box, my first blackshirt. I take off my jacket, undo my tie and pick it up. Though the coat still fits, it's snug and doesn’t leave much room to breathe. I place my hands in my pockets and pull out a piece of paper. As I read the broken text, I quickly put it back.
It was May, I was twelve and had been in the blackshirts for four years. I marched through the streets with other exuberant boys. I wanted to go to Rome and become a hero — we all did — but I wanted it most. I sang “The Youth of Italy” aloud again, as I had the night before. During the summer, we would run exercises, and the older kids gave us scaled-down versions of service rifles to fiddle with. During those warm months, sweating through my woollen jacket, I would walk up to the girls' camp for my sister, and we would walk home. We would play in the lake for hours behind the house. Often, I would see people in rags approach our door, and I would ask Grandma about them. “It is none of your concern. Go back outside and play,” she dismissed.
Hail, O people of heroes,
Hail, immortal homeland,
Your sons are reborn
With faith in the ideal.
The valour of your warriors,
The virtue of your pioneers,
Still shines in the hearts of Italy — in the hearts of faith!
We listened to veterans talk all day about the importance of loyalty and those who would betray our country, the partisans. That, according to the laws of fascist morality, when one has a friend, one marches with him wholeheartedly. I had a close friend who would come over to the house after camp some days, and whenever he did, I would carefully hide some books in Grandmother's collection, moving them from the living room to a cupboard in the kitchen. I had grown tired of feeling ashamed, of feeling like I was betraying my country. I wanted to do what was right. They taught us that evil exists, but that we are given the greatest gift, loyalty and free will. It was noon on a Sunday, and, confidently, with a pen in hand, I had made my decision and slid it into an envelope. I walked to camp the next day, just like every other day, but when I reached the entrance, I pulled the letter out of my pocket and handed it to the lead officer. He read it over and then leisurely handed it back. At lunch, I saw them get into their trucks and ride off over the hills toward Grandmother's house. The rest of the day, I had trouble with all my tasks, failing many exercises except the simplest. I reloaded my gun wrong, missed my targets and only after the veterans had finished their speech, realized I hadn’t heard a word they said. After camp, I did as usual and walked to the girls' camp, but she was not there. I asked where she had gone. “She’s been brought home,” they said. So I walked home on my own.
Youth! Youth!
Springtime of beauty!
Through the harshness of life,
Your song rings out and goes!
Balilla, young hero,
The pride of the homeland,
In your ardent gaze shines
The hope of tomorrow!
Approaching the door, I cautiously climbed the steps and, with shaky hands and rapid breaths, I reached for the doorknob. The house was completely ransacked, windows broken, books strewn everywhere, cupboards open, their contents littering the floor. I call out to my sister, panic creeping into my voice. Suddenly, a soldier enters, his jacket adorned in metal, his face pulled straight from a film, reminding me of my old posters. Giving me a nod, he tells me that I will be living elsewhere with a family of true patriots. “Where’s my sister?” I ask. “She will also be living with a new family, a family with a loyal mother.” He walks me back to the entrance. I look around and quickly turn my back to the house, hiding my tears.
Over Italian soil,
Over death and pain,
Rises the sun of labor,
Rises the sun of the future!
And for Mussolini, and for the Fatherland,
May the new path blossom —
Youth! Youth!
Springtime of beauty!
Her perfume lingers, and the attic smells sickly sweet. But that's not the only thing that smells; a rotting odour makes me nauseous —so nauseous that when I climb back down, I fall on my bad leg. I limp back through all the rooms, collecting my tie, jacket, hat and gloves and go out the front door.
The smell from the attic clings to my clothes as I step outside. The air is cooler now, and I turn to close the door, and it takes some force to shut it. When it finally latches, a hollow sound echoes through the house. I rest my hand on the doorknob for a moment before letting go. I put on my hat and make my way to the car. The house shrinks in the rear view mirror, and I see it just as wonderful as it was when I was young, before it disappears behind the hill. The cypress sway in the wind, their shadows trembling across the pavement. The road curls around the mountain, and the sea air fills the car.
I don’t know what I’ll do with the house. For now, I just keep driving.
Catherine Ste-Marie is a writer whose work has been published in OxJournal. Passionate about art, history and the environment, she dreams of helping create a better world so future artists and creators can thrive. When she’s not writing, Catherine enjoys playing her many instruments, reading or beating her two sisters at card games. Ever curious and optimistic, she approaches life with a “glass half full” mindset, ready to turn challenges into opportunities for improvement.
The Table — Arya Kambhampati
The dining room waits in reverent silence as the afternoon light spills through the west-facing windows, illuminating dust specks that dance above the space’s centerpiece: a massive table that has served four generations of my family. The wood glows amber under the fading sun, its surface worn smooth by years of use. A series of curved indentations along one edge where pencils had pressed too hard during homework sessions, water rings from countless glasses, and in one corner, a small carved lettering that looks like initials, which is nearly polished away by years of cleaning.
The table dominates my grandma’s dining room, its presence unapologetic and rooted. Once ornately wood-crafted, its legs have softened at the edges from thousands of brushing knees and fidgeting feet. The golden wood has darkened over time, deepening to rich mahogany at the edges where countless hands have gripped while pulling chairs forward. At its center, the wood is slightly concave from the weight of eighty-seven years of platters, bowls, and elbows pressed in attention during lively discussions.
Six chairs surround the expanse, not the original set, which had deteriorated a while earlier, but replacements selected so many years ago that now themselves showed wear. The cushions, now covered in a faded burgundy fabric, have been reupholstered twice. One chair, at the head of the table, stands slightly taller than the others, with armrests worn smooth where fingers have drummed during conversations.
Against the far wall stood a matching hutch, its glass doors reflecting the warm light, and among the beautiful crystal and silverware displayed sat incongruous treasures: a lopsided clay bowl I made in elementary school art class, a disheveled snowman ornament, and a hand-drawn family portrait framed as though it were a masterpiece.
It was one of those Sundays where everyone showed up but no one wanted to be there. It was our weekly performance for the family, as usual. My grandma had been hosting them since she moved from India to help take care of my brother after he was born. I was surrounded by the same familiar faces, though they felt more like acquaintances than anything else. I try to engage with my aunts and uncles, but the dialogue never sticks. “How’s school?”
“Good,” I answer. “Busy.”
A nod, a tight smile. Silence.
The adults talked about the weather, their jobs, and whatever new restaurant they had just tried. My aunts smiled too hard. My uncles checked their watches. I offered to help set out the water glasses just to escape the small talk. My grandma handed me a tray wordlessly, her bangles clinking. Her silence was never empty: it was always packed with things she didn’t say out loud.
So I slip into the comfort of my routine for these gatherings. I set the table with my siblings. We know the drill. Steel plates with simple silver rims, stainless steel spoons and forks arranged neatly next to crisp cloth napkins folded with precision. My siblings and I exchange glances, a private language of raised eyebrows and suppressed sighs. A single raised eyebrow from my sister meant Do you see what she’s wearing?, A glance at the hallway clock meant how long are we staying this time?, and a hard side-eye from me, usually directed at the grown-ups mid-conversation, translated to something like help me, I’m dying.
Dinner is finally ready. We sit down in the same seats we always do, in the same silence.
And almost like clockwork, the questions start coming, slipping in with every bite.
Last week, I was the one under interrogation.
“How many hours a day do you even look at that?” my grandfather snapped, not bothering to disguise his annoyance.
“Probably eight,” my mom guessed, clearly enjoying the chance to chime in. “Screen time is out of control. I read this article that said—”
“Always with the articles,” I muttered under my breath.
They made me read my screen time report out loud like it was a confession.
Instagram: 2 hours. TikTok: 1.5. Messages: 2. Books app? A tragic 14 minutes.
“You said you were reading more,” my dad said, disappointed. “I was. Just… not on the app,” I tried. He wasn’t convinced. No one was. So this week, I left my phone in the car and pretended I didn’t care. I hoped that I escaped the scrutiny this week.
Like always, my grandma had the opening line.
“We spoke to Riya Auntie yesterday,” she said brightly. “Her daughter finally got married. Such a beautiful ceremony. Simple, but elegant.” Every adult at the table perked up slightly. My aunt, the one sitting diagonally across from me, shifted uncomfortably. We all knew what was coming.
“And you know,” my grandma continued, “she’s only 30. Same age as Dipika.” The table went still. No one said her name, but Dipika’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. She put it down gently. Her face was unreadable.
“In our time,” my grandpa adds, “you would be married by 25.”
I look at my sister. She rolls her eyes. I stifle a laugh. I want to say something, something brave.
“She’s doing really well at work,” I offered, trying to change the subject, but my voice came out too quiet.
No one acknowledged it. The silence that followed wasn’t dramatic, it was just dull. It was almost like the breath before a sneeze or the stillness in a room before a picture falls off the wall.
“She’s doing well,” my grandma repeated, smiling tightly. “But working is not the same as being settled.”
There it was.
My dad coughed and reached for the food uncomfortably. My uncle leaned back in his chair, folded his arms. Dipika didn’t flinch. My parents look away. I pick at my food.
Then: “What is your number one college right now, Arya?”
I freeze.
“We are still discussing,” my mom cuts in.
“Let’s discuss now,” my grandma insists.
“How is your SAT?” asks my grandpa.
My stomach drops. I mumble, “I’m retaking it.”
“You must study harder,” he says.
My dad joins in. “No more wasting time with friends. You need to focus. I studied for two months and got a 1600. Just read that one book, remember? It changed everything for me.”
I know the book. I’ve read it. Twice. It did not change anything.
Maybe, I want to say, I’m just not you. But I say nothing. My mouth stays shut. My throat tightens. My sister glances at me, her eyes saying: Hang in there. I nod, barely.
They keep talking. Talking at me. I hear myself agreeing, promising to try harder, to cut the distractions, and to make everyone proud. Then suddenly, without warning, my eyes well up. I stare down at the table, the beautiful table, and blink fast. I can’t cry at dinner. I excuse myself quietly, push back the chair, and walk to the bathroom. I shut the door and let the tears fall. Quietly and with no drama. When I return, the conversation has shifted to clothing.
“You wore that outside?” my grandma says while staring at a picture on my mom’s phone. “You should be careful,” she adds. “You don’t want people getting the wrong idea.”
I bite my tongue. The wrong idea? Because I wore jeans and a slightly cropped shirt? Because I don’t live in 1985?
They start saying things in Telugu that they think I won’t understand. I have understood since I was seven years old, and I understand more than enough. The word “Murkhudu” floats by. Complaining. That’s me. The complainer.
They don’t look at me when they say it, but they don’t have to. I keep eating, pretending not to hear, pretending that the lemon rice isn’t turning bitter in my mouth.
My eyes drift to the table, its surface worn by years of use. It is easier to focus on the table than their piercing words.
The table got there before they did.
My grandfather had gotten into a PhD program in California, and my grandmother sent the essentials ahead. A few suitcases, some cookware, and, oddly enough, one enormous wooden dining table. It made no logical sense, but she insisted.
“We’ll need a proper table,” she told him. “We’re not eating on folding chairs like students. We have two children.”
He didn’t argue.
When they landed in California weeks later, jet-lagged in the California sun, the apartment was bare except for the table. It sat in the center of the living room, its carved legs slightly uneven on the floor.
My grandfather dropped his bags and looked at them, then at my grandmother.
“It’s huge.”
“It’s stable,” she said, patting one of its carved legs. “It’ll be good for studying. You’ll get your degree in half the time.”
He ended up writing most of his dissertation on that table. His notes were sprawled out across it for hours, the fan turning overhead, half-drunk cups of coffee growing cold next to stacks of paper. The table was covered in books cracked open with pens stuck inside, and research articles stapled and annotated in red pens.
My mom used to study at the same table. She and her friends would work through their AP physics and geometry problem sets. College brochures curled at the edges under the stacks of yellow notepads. They always had snacks, steel bowls of Kurkure, and peanuts that were casually passed around for everyone to share.
When she was sixteen when something snapped: A B+ in chemistry. Her first B ever. The moment she walked through the door, the air shifted. Not with yelling, never with yelling, but with something quieter: disappointment. She set her backpack down beside the table, the straps falling limply to the floor. The house was heavy with the smell of cumin and jasmine rice. Her notebooks jostled with every step she took, the corner of a graded lab slipping out just enough for the red ink to show: 87.
My grandmother stood at the stove, stirring something in slow, even circles. She didn’t turn around.
“You’re smarter than this,” she said.
My mom paused.
“It’s just one grade,” she finally replied. It was careful, but she could hear her voice catching.
My grandmother didn’t sigh or raise her voice; that wasn’t how things worked in their house.
“It is always just one grade. Then just one missed opportunity. Then just one life that isn’t what it should have been.”
She turned down the heat on the stove, still not facing my mom. “We didn’t come here for B-pluses.”
It wasn’t about the grade. It never was. It was about the weight she carried that wasn’t entirely hers. It was about growing up in a house where ambition wasn’t a choice but a responsibility.
A B+ felt like a betrayal.
My mom didn’t respond. She just walked to the table, pulled out the chair she always sat in, the left one, and sat. Her hands were motionless on her lap. Her eyes stung, but she wouldn’t cry. She didn’t want to give in to the silence. Behind her, the spoon clinked against the side of the pot.
“Next time, study more,” my grandmother said. Still gentle. Still devastated.
“I studied,” my mom said. But not loud enough for anyone to believe her. Maybe not even herself.
No one mentioned her honor roll. Or how she stayed up past midnight the night before, reviewing her notes in the dining room. Or that she skipped lunch that day to retake a quiz for extra credit. None of that mattered. And sitting at that table, with the wood pressing against her palms, she realized that at the end of the day, to her family, it wasn’t about effort, it was about the result.
Later that night, when the house was quiet, my mom sat at the table alone. Her books were still open, though she wasn’t reading. Her hands were shaking, not in rage but something closer to exhaustion. She opened the junk drawer and pulled out a small craft knife. She rested her hand on the table and stared at the grain. Then, carefully, she carved one letter: A.
Not for her name. Not for the grade she didn’t get. Not even out of anger.
She carved it to remind herself that she existed outside of expectations— or at least she wanted to.
But the next day, she went to school. She studied harder. She retook the exam and got the A. She went to a good college. Majored in something practical. Came home on time. Wore the right clothes. Got the right job. Got married. She became the perfect daughter her parents had always wanted.
The table stayed in the house. Dishes were cleared, new laptops replaced old textbooks, but the table remained. Every time she sat at it, she remembered that night. The letter.
Years later, when she had children of her own, she never talked about the letter. The table was in the center of my grandma’s house like it always had been. Her children did their homework there. She circled their spelling errors with red pens, corrected their grammar mid-sentence, and told them to never settle.
“Smart girls don’t get lazy,” she’d say, as she had once been told.
She pressed the same expectations onto them that she had once pushed against: not because she didn’t remember what it felt like, but because she did. Because the pressure had worked. She had gone to college. She had succeeded. She had become the version of herself her mother always imagined. A version that looked impressive on paper.
There were some moments when she’d sit alone at the table, sorting mail or checking school portals, and her fingers would drift over the wood. The indentation was still there. She never spoke of it. Maybe because it embarrassed her. Maybe because if she acknowledged it, she’d have to admit that the version of life she chose, the one built on rules and grades, wasn’t the one she wanted after all.
I run my fingers over the table now. Same spot. Same wood. The A is still there, faint, but visible if you know where to look. My mom pretends not to see when my eyes settle on it during dinner. Maybe she hopes I will never know the story of it.
By the end of dinner, we are all exhausted. Not from the food, but from surviving the meal. I help clear the plates. My aunt offers to dry. We share a look— one of those unspoken acknowledgements. You okay? Me too.
The table remains. Solid. Watching. Absorbing. I wipe down the surface slowly. My grandmother stands in the doorway, arms crossed loosely, her eyes soft but calculating.
“This will be your table one day,” she says.
She means it as a blessing.
I don’t respond at first. The cloth is still in my hand, the fabric damp and warm. My fingers are curled tightly around it. I nod because it is easier than saying no.
Because inside, I know: I don’t want this table. Not because it isn’t beautiful. Not because it hasn’t held generations of meals, assignments, and lives. But because I don’t want what comes with it. I don’t want a table that makes people small. A table that asks for straight A’s, perfect scores, and quiet obedience. A table that knows how to praise results and forget effort. A table where silence means disappointment. I don’t want to inherit the weight of that expectation. I don’t want to build a life on fear of disappointing the people who raised me.
My grandmother’s eyes meet mine from the doorway, her gaze softening just a little. I think she sees the hesitation, my unspoken resistance. Maybe she recognizes it—because once, she must’ve felt it too. Maybe she knows I don’t want the table as it is now. Not with its silence and expectations still heavy in the woodgrain. Maybe she hopes I’ll come to understand it the way she does. But I won’t.
My table will be different.
It will be a round table, made of a light, honey-colored wood. The wood grain will flow in waves beneath the matte finish, catching the light softly rather than reflecting it harshly. The legs will be simple and solid. No fancy details or decorative elements, just 4 sturdy supports. The chairs around it look like they were collected over time rather than bought as a set. Some are painted, their colors faded and edges worn down; others are bare wood with mismatched finishes and heights that make the whole arrangement feel accidental.
People will come to my Sunday dinner because they want, not because they feel obligated. No one will be performing. The chairs will never feel like interrogation seats. There will be no rehearsed small talk and no awkward silences heavy with expectation. No one will define their worth in grades or resumes. No one will sit quietly rehearsing answers to questions they never wanted to be asked. I won’t ask about test scores or college applications. I’ll ask better questions. Questions that don’t have a right answer. The conversations will flow without pauses of discomfort. I want my family to feel safe here. No pressure, no judgment. Just us. This is the table I want.
Arya Kambhampati is a writer who has already published two poems, “The Space Between” and “The Fairytales We Never Outgrow.” When she’s not reading or spending time with friends, she’s probably somewhere overthinking her college applications and imagining the essays she’ll write next. Even as she looks ahead to college, Arya hopes to keep writing: both the stories she lives and the ones she creates.