It was hard not to notice that I was the lone single at a table with four couples. Man, woman, man, woman, and at the head, me. Man, woman, man, woman, and an empty seat. I should have been looking at Cal and he should have been gazing back at me, a soft smile on his face. Instead, I saw the living room beyond the vacant chair. Sally had insisted that I sit in my father’s spot, which was weird to begin with. Perhaps she’d thought I was embarrassed by my solitude and wanted to make me feel as though I was being revered in some sort of way. I didn’t understand it, but from how relentless she was in her insistence, it seemed it was important to her. I complied, mostly because it wasn’t something I gave a shit about. I was far from easygoing, but I’d long since mastered the ability to determine what was worth digging my heels into the dirt for and what wasn’t. If I chose to object to something it was because it was important enough to care about. Typically, I kept my head down because I was too disinterested to lift it up.

“Are you enjoying the meatloaf?” Sally inquired as I pushed the dog food around my plate. Glancing around, I realized she’d once again directed the question toward me. She’d made a point to ask me how I felt about each part of the meal. It took a great amount of my patience not to tell her to fuck off. I wished she’d shift her attention to anybody else.

“Yeah, thanks,” I muttered, taking a bite so my mouth was too full to say more. It was a sacrifice, considering how it pained me to ingest the mush. However, speaking to her was a more brutal endeavor.

“I would love to get the recipe from you, Sally,” Millie interjected. “It has the perfect amount of tang. It would be a great addition to our dinner rotation.” She patted Igor’s cheek and gave her step-mother-in-law a tight-lipped grin.

I glanced back and forth between them, attempting to figure out which Mikhailov woman I hated the least, and came to the conclusion that Yekaterina was the only correct answer. Unlike the new additions, Kat was authentic. She didn’t attempt to play nice for the sake of appearances the way the Americans did. She wasn’t rude by any means, but she remained quiet, an attribute I found respectable.

“It is delicious,” Ingrid complimented as if she hadn’t slyly slid her portion onto Maks’ plate moments before.

“My Sally is a tremendous cook,” my father boasted, very obviously peeking at Yekaterina when he made the statement to assure she was paying attention. She wasn’t.