[Maddie’s POV]

Saturday dinner starts with Dad doing his best impression of a reasonable human being, which is honestly more unsettling than when he was just ignoring my existence.

We’re in the dining room—the fancy one we only use when relatives visit or someone’s pretending everything is fine. The table is set with the good china, which Mom only breaks out for occasions that require performative normalcy.

Dad passes me the salad bowl, and his voice is so casual it makes my teeth hurt. “Let me tell you something. Something that may not earn forgiveness, but—” He didn’t finish the sentence, but spoke what was needed to.

“I was raised in a certain way, Madison. That’s why I didn’t take it well initially. You have to understand—my father, his generation, they taught us about these things differently.”

I take the bowl on autopilot, my brain short-circuiting because is he actually doing the ‘it’s not me, it’s my upbringing’ defense? That’s like blaming your Netflix recommendations for your terrible personality.

“These things meaning my relationship with Emily?” I hear myself say, voice impressively steady considering my internal organs are doing acrobatics.

“Your choices.” He corrects gently, like we’re discussing my questionable taste in music rather than the fact that he disowned me. “I’ve had time to reflect. Perhaps I was hasty. Your mother and I have been discussing it.”

Mom materializes with wine, her smile so bright it could power a small city. “More for you, sweetheart? This is supposed to be a nice family dinner, after all.” She says ‘family dinner’ like it’s a spell that’ll make the last six months disappear.

I watch her pour, the red wine catching the light, and think about how Emily would see through this in approximately three seconds.

Emily, who’s currently alone in our dorm eating sad pizza because I’m here playing happy families with people who think my sexuality is a ‘choice’ they need to ‘reflect’ on.

“I appreciate you wanting to talk.” I’m going for diplomatic but landing somewhere closer to hostage negotiation. “But I’m not sure what there is to discuss. I’m with Emily. That’s not changing.”

Dad leans back, wine glass tilting casually like we’re discussing sports stats. “Of course not. We’re not asking you to change anything. We’re asking if we can find some middle ground here, something that works for everyone involved.”

Middle ground. Right. Because my relationship is totally something we can compromise on, like picking a restaurant or deciding whose turn it is to do dishes. I stab at my salad with probably more violence than leafy greens deserve.

“What does middle ground look like exactly?” The question comes out sharper than intended, but Dad doesn’t flinch. He’s in full lawyer mode now, the version of him that wins cases by sounding reasonable while arguing completely unreasonable things.

“Well, for instance—have you considered that Lakeview might not be the best environment for your skating career right now? The bias you’re facing, the scoring issues. I ran into Paul Whitmore last week. His daughter Jessica trains with Victoria Hughes in Denver. Very focused program, excellent results.”

And there it is. The actual agenda, served up with the chicken parmesan. Come home, train with Victoria, conveniently remove yourself from the situation that’s ‘causing problems.’ AKA: ditch Emily, pretend to be straight, make Dad’s life easier.

“I’m not leaving Lakeview.” My voice is flat, final. “And I’m not leaving Emily. So if that’s what this dinner is actually about—”

“Madison.” Mom’s hand covers mine, warm and gentle and completely horrifying. “We’re not asking you to leave anyone. We’re asking you to consider what’s best for your future. Your skating, your education, your whole life ahead of you.”

The way she says it makes it sound so reasonable, so loving, so concerned. Like they’re not asking me to choose between my girlfriend and my family. Like ‘middle ground’ isn’t just code for ‘come back to us and leave her behind.’

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