Chapter 328
**Sara**
For a moment, I almost felt guilty about keeping Tom a secret from them. Almost. But then I imagined Dad's face if I told him I was dating my professor – former professor, technically, but still. He'd either have a conniption or start planning the wedding immediately. There was no in-between with him.
"Earth to Sara," Charles waved his hand in front of my face. "You planning to join us at the table or just stand there daydreaming all night?"
I blinked, realizing I'd been staring into space with a dopey smile. "Sorry, just thinking about... work stuff."
"Work stuff, huh?" Charles raised an eyebrow. "Must be some fascinating spreadsheets."
"You have no idea," I muttered, sliding into my usual seat at the table.
Dad raised his glass. "A toast! To Sara's new job, Charles and Melissa's relationship, and my perfectly grilled steaks!"
"Hear, hear!" Mom clinked her glass against his.
I took a sip of wine, grateful for the momentary distraction. The familiar chaos of a family dinner unfolded around me – Mom fussing over portion sizes, Dad recounting his grilling adventures in excruciating detail, and Charles stealing the crispiest edge piece of lasagna when he thought no one was looking.
"Hey!" I protested, pointing my fork at him accusingly. "That was my piece!"
"You snooze, you lose," he said, grinning as he took an exaggerated bite.
"Children," Mom sighed, but she was smiling. "There's plenty for everyone."
Dad cut into his steak with surgical precision, examining the center with the intensity of a diamond appraiser. "Perfect medium-rare," he announced proudly. "The secret is in the timing."
"And the YouTube tutorials," I added innocently.
He pointed his knife at me. "Don't mock the process, young lady. Rome wasn't built in a day, and neither was my grilling expertise."
"It only took three bags of charcoal and five pounds of ruined meat," Mom murmured into her wine glass.
We all laughed, even Dad, who had the good grace to look sheepish.
"Worth every penny," he insisted. "Quality education is never cheap."
I snorted, nearly choking on my wine. "Dad, you literally watched free YouTube videos."
"Back in my day," Dad said, waving his fork for emphasis, "we didn't have all this internet nonsense. If you wanted to learn something, you either found someone to teach you or you bought a book."
Mom rolled her eyes. "Oh, here we go."
"No, I'm serious!" Dad continued, warming to his topic. "You kids don't appreciate how easy you have it. Want to learn basket weaving? There's a video. Want to speak Mandarin? There's an app. Want to rebuild a motorcycle engine? Just search it up!"
"Says the man who learned grilling from YouTube," Mom interjected dryly.
Dad's mouth opened and closed like a fish. "That's... that's different."
"How is that different?" I laughed, helping myself to another serving of lasagna.
"It's... supplemental education," he declared after a moment. "I already knew the basics."
Charles snickered. "Is that what we're calling it when you set the patio on fire last summer?"
"That was a controlled burn," Dad insisted with dignity.
"The fire department didn't seem to think so," I reminded him.
Dad ignored us, cutting another piece of his steak with surgical precision. "Actually, I've been thinking..."
Mom groaned. "Oh no."
"What if I started my own YouTube channel?" Dad's eyes lit up with excitement. "I could teach amateur cooks the proper techniques. 'Grilling with Parker' or maybe 'Dad's Backyard BBQ Bonanza'!"
The table fell silent. I exchanged a look with Charles, who was clearly struggling not to laugh.
"Honey," Mom said gently, "don't you think you should master grilling first before you start teaching others?"
"This is mastery!" Dad gestured to his plate. "Look at this beautiful medium-rare!"
"One successful steak doesn't make you Gordon Ramsay, Dad," I pointed out.
Melissa, who had been quietly enjoying the family chaos, cleared her throat. "Mr. Parker, I don't mean to be rude, but aren't you still almost an amateur yourself?"
Dad looked momentarily offended before his expression softened. "That's exactly my target audience, Melissa! Amateurs teaching amateurs! It's relatable content!"
"Relatable content would be you running around with the fire extinguisher while the grill shoots flames ten feet in the air," Charles muttered.
"I heard that," Dad said, pointing his knife at Charles. "And I'll have you know that would make excellent B-roll footage."
I nearly spit out my wine. "Dad! You can't deliberately set fires for views!"
"I wouldn't set them deliberately," he protested. "They just... happen sometimes."
Mom shook her head, but I could see the fondness in her eyes. "Honey, maybe start with mastering a few signature dishes before launching your influencer career."
"Fine, fine," Dad conceded. "I'll perfect my technique first, then start the channel. It'll just be a hobby anyway."
"A hobby that won't burn down the neighborhood," Mom added, serving another helping of garlic bread.
"Your lack of faith is disturbing," Dad said in his best Darth Vader impression, which wasn't very good at all.
I laughed, feeling the tension in my shoulders melting away. There was something magical about being home, surrounded by the familiar chaos of family dinner. The constant teasing, the inside jokes, and Dad's ridiculous grilling ambitions all felt comforting, like a warm blanket on a cold day.
The conversation drifted to Charles's work projects, Mom's book club drama, and the neighbor's new, extremely vocal beagle. I savored each bite of lasagna, letting the familiar rhythm of family banter wash over me.
After dinner, I insisted on helping with the dishes despite Mom's protests.
"You're our guest now," she argued, trying to shoo me away from the sink.
"Mom, I'm your daughter, not a dinner party guest. Let me help."
She relented, and we fell into our old routine—me washing, her drying. Through the kitchen window, I could see Dad and Charles examining the grill with a serious concentration of surgeons performing a delicate operation.
"Your father spent three hundred dollars on that new grill," Mom confided, lowering her voice. "He thinks I don't know, but I found the receipt."
I whistled low. "That's quite an investment for someone who just learned not to cremate steaks."
"He's having fun," she shrugged. "And honestly, it keeps him out of my hair. When he's obsessing over grill temperatures, he's not reorganizing my pantry 'for efficiency.'"
I laughed, remembering Dad's short-lived organizational phase. "Fair point."
Once the kitchen was clean, I slipped outside into the backyard. The evening air was cool against my skin, carrying the lingering scent of barbecue and Mom's roses.
The garden was Mom's pride and joy, with meticulously maintained flower beds bordering the lawn and string lights twinkling along the fence.
I wandered down the stone path, running my fingers over the soft petals of her prized dahlias. The familiar landscape of my childhood home brought a sense of peace I hadn't realized I'd been missing in my hectic new life.
Settling onto the old wooden bench tucked beneath the maple tree, I pulled out my phone. There were no missed calls or new messages. The screen stared back at me, disappointingly blank.
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