The road trip was great. You and Sam laughed endlessly about encounters with truck drivers, hitchhikers and locals.

The news had to be revealed to your families, though. Not an easy task. You came up with the idea of having both sets of parents over for dinner. Food would ease the blow.

Parents arrived and conversation was pleasant. You kept exchanging looks with Sam as he sat on the opposite side of the table. You tried to send him messages through telepathy: Should we do this now? Say something?

But your mom noticed first. She saw that band on your left ring finger. All attempts for civil discussion were abandoned as she raged with anger and demanded to know what was going on between you. What did you do?

We got married.

And each set of parents ripped out a verbal attack on the other, tearing apart the family. The mothers bickered about whether the others' offspring was good enough. The fathers yelled about the responsibility of taking care of the house, of bringing home the bacon. Sam tried to subdue them, but nearly entered a fistfight with your dad. Sam left the table, and the apartment. You were left to placate the two families, a mediating mess.

How did he get to leave, while you had to harness control? You sat in between the two families underneath the stream of bickering. Your eyes fell and hooked onto the edge of the table. A drip of marinara sauce hung on the edge of the wood, taunting gravity.

The End.