Chapter 2 - The Flying Loafer
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Clare was exhausted. Carrying our first child had taken a severe toll on her lower back, and her center of gravity was completely off. When we walked into my parents' house for lunch, Clare sank into the soft burgundy velvet of the recliner with a deep sigh of relief.
I noticed immediately. However, as an adult living in a civil society, I assumed my family would show basic human empathy to a pregnant woman.
I was dead wrong.
Three minutes later, Tessa floated down the stairs. She froze the moment her eyes landed on Clare. Her face contorted into pure, unadulterated fury.
"You're in my chair," Tessa barked, her voice sharp enough to slice glass.
Clare looked over her shoulder, confused.
"Oh, hi Tessa. I'm just resting my back for a few minutes. It's really supportive."
"No," Tessa snapped, stepping closer.
"My chair. Move."
I immediately stepped forward to diffuse the situation.
"Tessa, take a breath. Clare's carrying a baby and her sciatica is flaring up. Sit on the couch."
Tessa glared at me as if I had insulted her whole life.
"I always sit there. Move now."
Clare kept her composure and spoke softly.
"I'm really comfortable right now, Tessa. I'll get up in ten minutes."
That was the exact moment my thirty-two-year-old sister unlaced her leather loafer and hurled it directly at my pregnant wife's head.
The shoe missed Clare by an inch, bounced off a framed family portrait, and landed squarely in a bowl of pretzels on the coffee table.
Silence fell over the room.
"Did you just throw a shoe at me?" Clare whispered, trembling.
"You defied me!" Tessa shrieked.
My father, Ron, threw his head back and laughed out loud.
"Pregnancy hormones! Everybody just relax!"
My mother, Linda, smiled sweetly and wiped her hands on a dish towel.
"Clare, honey, maybe just sit on the floor next time. You know how she gets about her chair."
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Clare slowly stood up. Her face was ice cold. She quietly reached for her coat.
I grabbed my keys, pulled out my phone, and followed her out the door.
