The Chubby Luna The Alpha Mock Rescued Him From Death

Chapter 4: The First Gift

I set the last plate down in front of my father and slid into my own seat at the far end of the table, the one closest to the kitchen door, the one nobody ever fought me for. My portion was small, whatever was left after everyone else had taken their share, but I was too tired to care tonight. I picked at the rice and let my mind drift somewhere else entirely.

Maybe I should just say yes to Frank.

The thought surprised me even as it formed. I didn't love him. I barely knew him. But he had a car, a house somewhere far from here, a life that didn't include my mother's voice cutting through every room I walked into. Maybe that was enough. Maybe if I married him, I could finally walk out of this house and never come back, never cook another meal for a sister who—

"I'm home!"

Mary's voice rang through the front door before she walked in, and my thoughts scattered like startled birds. She swept into the dining room still in her blazer, her bag sliding off one shoulder, and went straight past me to where our parents sat.

"Mama. Papa." She wrapped her arms around each of them in turn, and my mother's whole face transformed, lighting up in a way I hadn't seen it do for me in years. "I'm so tired. My supervisor had me running around the office all day. I didn't even get lunch."

"Oh, my poor girl." My mother reached up and smoothed her hand over Mary's hair. "Go upstairs and take your bath then come back down and eat."

Mary didn't move toward the stairs. Instead, she turned, found me at the end of the table, and walked straight over.

"Mercy, serve my food. Now. I'm starving, I can't even think straight."

"I just sat down—"

"Please," she said the word like it cost her nothing, like it wasn't really a request at all. "I've been on my feet since six this morning. Mercy You've been sitting at work."

I looked at my mother, some small part of me hoping she'd say something, tell Mary to wait two minutes, let me finish my own dinner in peace. She said nothing. She simply watched, the same way she always did.

I stood up.

There wasn't much rice left in the pot, I'd portioned it carefully, knowing four people needed to eat from what I'd cooked with what little we had. I scraped together what remained onto a plate, added the last of the stew, and carried it out to the dining room.

Mary was already sitting in my chair.

Eating from my plate.

I stopped in the doorway, the empty serving spoon still in my hand, and watched her lift another forkful of my rice to her mouth like it had always belonged to her.

Mary, that's my food."

"I haven't eaten enough food since morning," she said, not even glancing up. "I was hungrier."

Something happened in my chest then. Not the familiar burn of humiliation I'd carried home from the office, not the tight, small anger I'd learned to swallow my whole life. Something that felt like heat gathering behind my ribs, pressing outward, a strange pulse of pressure building beneath my skin like a held breath about to break. My hands trembled around the spoon. For one terrifying second, I thought something inside me might actually tear loose. Then the doorbell rang, interrupting whatever that was going on with me.

Mary was up and moving before the sound had finished, grateful for any excuse to escape the plate she'd emptied, and I stood frozen in the dining room trying to understand what had just happened to my own body. The strange heat drained away as quickly as it had come, leaving me shaking and confused and uncertain. I hadn't imagined the whole thing.

"Hello. Are you Miss Mercy?"

The man's voice carried in from the front door, smooth, dressed in the kind of accent that came from money.

"No," Mary said. "I'm her sister."

"I was sent to deliver this to her."

"From who?" Mary's voice sharpened with curiosity.

"I was instructed not to say. I was told she wouldn't accept it if she knew."

A pause. Then the soft rustle of something being passed from his hands into hers. "Please see that she receives it."

The door clicked shut. Mary stood in the hallway a moment, and even from the dining room I could see her turning the gift bag over in her hands, searching for a name, a label. She found an envelope tucked into the ribbon and slid the letter free, her eyes moving quickly across whatever was written there. I watched her jaw tighten.

"What is it?" my mother called from the parlor, suddenly very interested in something she'd ignored moments before. "What does it say?"

"Nothing," Mary said, folding the letter closed, then let's see what is inside. "Let her open it herself, Mama. You know your daughter, it's probably something cursed that would be inside anyway." She laughed, short and sharp, and my mother laughed with her, the two of them sharing something at my expense.

My father and mother, who moments ago had claimed they were too tired to move from the parlor sofas, rose almost immediately and drifted toward the dining room, settling into chairs they'd abandoned an hour earlier. I wasn't foolish enough to believe it was exhaustion pulling them back. It was curiosity. They wanted to see.

Mary carried the bag over and set it down in front of me without meeting my eyes. "Someone sent you this. A man came to the door. He wouldn't say who sent it, he said You wouldn't accept it if you knew." She said it lightly.

I stared at the bag. Five small packages sat nestled inside, each one wrapped with more care than anything I'd ever owned, soft paper, delicate ribbon, the kind of wrapping that spoke of money and attention I wasn't used to receiving from anyone.

My hands shook as I lifted the first one out.

Everyone at the table went quiet. Even Mary, despite herself, leaned in.

I peeled back the paper slowly, folding it away from a small box beneath, and lifted the lid.

Inside sat a pair of soft house slippers, but not ordinary ones. They were plush, oversized, clearly made to actually fit a foot like mine, with a note tucked beneath them that read: So your feet don't hurt.

For a moment nobody said anything at all.

Then my mother's hand rose quickly to cover her mouth, and my father turned his face toward the window, his shoulders shaking with the effort of holding something back. Mary pressed her lips together so hard they went pale, her eyes darting to the ceiling like she'd suddenly found something fascinating up there.