The restaurant hummed with the familiar sounds of clinking glasses, bursts of laughter, and the soft, cheerful tones of a holiday jazz band playing in the background. The music blended seamlessly with the steady hum of conversation from other diners gathered for their Christmas Eve celebrations. The warm golden glow of the chandeliers cast a soft light over the polished tables, where servers in crisp white shirts navigated effortlessly between chairs, balancing trays laden with cocktails, appetizers, and elegant entrées, each plate a miniature masterpiece of culinary indulgence.
Mia sat at the long table, her chair angled slightly toward the center, offering a perfect vantage point from which she could observe the entire family. Each face was so familiar, yet at this moment they felt like complete strangers, as if she were watching a scene in a movie rather than participating in it. Every year, for as long as she could remember, this had been her responsibility.
The final bill. The silent expectation. The understanding that once the check arrived, she would reach for her wallet without hesitation, sliding her card into the black leather folio as her family barely acknowledged the gesture.
It had started small, years ago, when she had first landed her corporate job and wanted to celebrate by treating everyone, basking in the joy of their approval and their praises about how successful and generous she had become. But somewhere along the way, that generosity had been taken for granted, twisted into an unspoken rule that Mia would always pay, no questions asked, no gratitude needed. Just an automatic assumption as natural as the turning of the seasons.
She watched as her cousins, uncles, and aunts laughed and ordered without a second thought, indulging in top-shelf drinks, the most expensive entrées, and desserts they would barely touch, treating the menu as if it were a suggestion list rather than a collection of prices and options. Her Aunt Linda leaned over to her husband, her gold bracelets jingling as she gestured toward a bottle of wine on the menu, something imported, something extravagant, something she wouldn’t dream of buying for herself on an ordinary night. Her cousin Jake, barely paying attention, waved the server over and ordered the wagyu steak, rare, adding a lobster tail just because, not even glancing at the price.
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