Chapter 3 - Family TensionsThe morning sun broke over Cicero with a pale, watery light that did little to warm the biting autumn air. Inside Chloe’s cramped two-bedroom apartment, the chaos was already reaching a fever pitch.
"Where have you been, Rach?" Chloe demanded, rushing out of the bathroom with a half-applied layer of mascara and her blonde hair pinned back in plastic rollers. "You missed rehearsal dinner! We called your cell, but it was dead, and Tyler was freaking out because the seating chart was locked in!"
I sank onto the lumpy floral sofa, trying to balance Sophie on my knee while carefully folding Ethan’s heavy cashmere coat and placing it over the armrest. "My flight was delayed, Chloe. Then the baby had a complete meltdown over Nebraska. It was a nightmare."
Chloe stopped pacing, her eyes finally landing on me, then dropping to the oversized designer coat resting on the sofa. She squinted, walking over and running a finger along the fine fabric.
"Rach... is this Loro Piana?" she asked, her voice dropping an octave as she checked the inner silk lining. "This coat costs more than Tyler’s entire wedding catering budget. Who gave you this?"
"I met someone on the plane," I muttered, avoiding her gaze as I unbuttoned my diaper bag to dig for a clean pacifier. "A businessman. He... helped me with Sophie when she wouldn't stop screaming."
"A businessman?" Chloe’s eyes widened, a spark of mischievous hope lighting up her exhausted features. "Oh my god. Was he cute? Is he single? Is he rich? Tell me he’s rich, please, because Tyler’s uncle still hasn't paid for the bar tab he promised!"
"Chloe, stop," I groaned, rubbing my temples. "He was just a passenger. He had a private car service waiting when we landed, and he dropped me off because he saw how exhausted I was. That’s it."
Before Chloe could interrogate me further, the front door swung open and Tyler walked in, carrying three cardboard boxes of folding chairs borrowed from the local Knights of Columbus hall. Tyler was a good guy—stocky, perpetually stressed, and wearing a plaid shirt that had seen better days—but he had the nervous energy of a man about to walk into an active volcano.
"Morning, Rach! Glad you made it," Tyler panted, dumping the chairs near the small kitchen table. "Listen, your dad’s downstairs with the rental van, and he’s already complaining about parking. Also, Uncle Vince showed up early and he’s half-drunk on peach schnapps."
My stomach plummeted. "Great. Exactly what we needed."
Our father, Frank Morales, had spent thirty years working the loading docks at the Chicago stockyards before his knees gave out. He was a proud, stubborn, old-school man who believed that debt was a moral failure and that women belonged in the kitchen. When I got pregnant at twenty-four and the father skipped town, my father treated it as a personal insult to the Morales name. Moving to L.A. two years ago hadn't been an escape from the diner industry; it had been an escape from my father’s constant, suffocating disappointment.
By 1:00 p.m., we were at St. Jude’s Parish Hall, a drafty community center smelling of floor wax and stale coffee.
The wedding ceremony itself was a blur of mismatched hymns, crying children, and Chloe looking genuinely radiant in a secondhand lace gown that somehow fit her perfectly. I stood in the front pew holding Sophie, swaying gently back and forth to keep her quiet, while my father sat three rows back, arms crossed over his chest, scowling at the altar like he was attending a funeral.
During the reception, things went downhill fast.
"So, Rachel," my father barked, slamming a plastic cup of cheap draft beer onto the laminate table as he cornered me near the buffet line. "Your sister tells me you rolled up to her apartment this morning in a luxury car wearing a coat fit for a duropa. Where’d you steal that from?"
"I didn't steal it, Dad," I said tightly, shifting Sophie to my other hip. "I told you, I met a passenger on the flight who was kind enough to give me a ride."
"Right. A kind stranger," my father sneered, his weathered face twisting into a cynical grin. "People in limos don't give rides to broke waitresses from East L.A. out of the goodness of their hearts, Rachel. What did you have to do to earn that kind of charity?"
The insult hit me like a physical blow. Tears of pure frustration stung the back of my eyes. "I didn't do anything, Dad. He saw a crying baby and an exhausted mother, and he helped out. Why is it so hard for you to believe that someone could be decent?"
"Because nothing in this life is free!" my father shouted, drawing the attention of several tables nearby. "I worked forty years on the docks, and nobody ever handed me a designer coat! You’re reckless, just like your mother, dragging that baby across the country with no money and no sense—"
"Hey."
The single word wasn't loud, but it cut through the din of the reception hall with the chilling precision of a scalpel.
The entire table went dead silent.
My father stopped mid-sentence, turning his head angrily toward the interruption. Standing at the edge of our table was Marcus, flanked by another towering man in a charcoal suit. Marcus’s expression was an impassive mask of granite, his dark suit pressing sharply against the cheap festive streamers hanging from the ceiling.
"Who the hell are you?" my father demanded, puffing out his chest. "This is a private family gathering. Get lost before I call the cops."
Marcus didn't blink. He reached into his jacket, pulled out a pristine, thick black card with a gold crest, and laid it flat on the laminate table right beside my father’s spilled beer.
"Mr. Callahan sends his regards," Marcus said smoothly, his voice devoid of any warmth. "And he wanted to ensure Miss Morales and her daughter were being treated with the proper respect."
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My father stared at the card, his face draining of color as his eyes rose from the gold crest to Marcus’s unblinking gaze.
In Chicago, everyone knew what that crest meant.
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