We Don’t Feed Extras

We Don’t Feed Extras

“We don’t feed extras,” my sister said, sliding a glass of water toward my son while her daughters dined on lobster. My mother added, “You should know your place.” I simply smiled and said, “Noted.” When the chef arrived…

Family Dinner

The reservation at Meridian was for 7:00 p.m. during the evening rush. My sister, Claire, had chosen the restaurant — “the best seafood in the city,” she texted. “Perfect for a family dinner. You’ll love it.”

My fourteen-year-old son, Tyler, sat beside me in the booth. Across from us, Claire’s twin daughters, Sophia and Emma, confidently browsed the menu like regulars. Our mother sat at the head of the table, studying the wine list.

“The Maine lobster here is supposed to be amazing,” Claire announced. “Girls, you should try the lobster platter.”

“Can I have one too?” Tyler asked hopefully.

Claire glanced at him, then at me. “It’s a little expensive for… well, you know.”

“For what?” I asked quietly.

“This dinner is for the girls. We’re celebrating their achievements. Everyone else should probably order something simpler.”

Tyler nodded, disappointment flickering in his eyes. When the waitress — Ashley — came to take our drink orders, Claire cut in. “Just tap water for him.” Ashley slid the glass across the table, as if serving a bowl to a dog.

“Claire, that was rude,” I said softly. She only shrugged. “We don’t feed extras,” she said casually, as if commenting on the weather.