Unlabeled 🌈

Family Dinner

Chapter Eleven

The clatter of forks and knives is louder than the conversation. My parents sit across from me, both locked into their routines—Dad scrolling through his phone between bites, Mom asking questions that sound more like checklists than curiosity.

“How was school?” she asks, eyes on her plate.

“Fine,” I answer. It’s the safest word I know. Not too much, not too little.

My little brother talks about his soccer game, his voice carrying across the table with the easy confidence of someone who never has to second-guess who he is. My mom laughs at his jokes, my dad even looks up long enough to nod. For a moment, I wonder what it would feel like to be that simple.

But then Mom’s gaze flickers up at me. “You’re awfully quiet,” she says. “Everything okay?”

I nod, forcing a smile, but inside my stomach twists. The truth presses at the back of my throat like it’s begging to be let out: I don’t know who I am. I don’t know what to call myself. Some days I feel like a daughter, some days like neither. Some days I wonder if they’d even look at me the same if I told them.

Dad clears his throat, already changing the subject, and the moment passes. Just like always.

I push food around my plate, pretending I’m full, pretending I’m fine. The silence grows between us, invisible but sharp, and I can’t stop thinking: this table feels like the loneliest place in the world