Chapter 119 EPILOGUE: PART 1

Chapter 119 EPILOGUE: PART 1
Gabriel Morgan

“Of course she knows it,” my mother laughs. “This is one of the good ones.”

Ethan stares at me, shocked.

“Our first Christmas at home… and your mother puts this on.”

“Her tradition is to ruin any classic mood. "I shrug.

In the backyard, my father-in-law yells:

“IS THIS MUSIC FOR COOKING OR FOR PARTYING?”

“FOR EVERYTHING!” my mother answers.

The living room fills with laughter.

We continue decorating the tree, hanging the last lights. When I finish plugging it into the outlet, the lights blink, illuminating Ethan's face.

He stops for a second, watching.

“It looks beautiful.”

“It does,” I agree.

He turns around and hugs me, resting his forehead against my chest.

“Thank you for this. For this house. For this life.”

I kiss the top of his head.

“Thank you for being here with me.”

“HEY!” my mother's voice cuts through the entire house. “THAT'S ENOUGH of this depressive mood over there! No more hugging! Come help before I kick both of you out of this house that isn't even mine!”

Ethan lifts his face right away, laughing.

“Did she just call us depressive?”

“She did,” I confirm, laughing too. “And it sounded like a real threat.”

“HURRY UP, GABRIEL!” she yells again from the kitchen. “IF YOU BURN THE MEAT, IT'S YOUR FAULT!”

“I HAVEN'T EVEN REACHED THE GRILL YET!” I answer loudly.

“BUT YOU WILL!” she fires back. “AND YOU'RE ALREADY DOING IT WRONG!”

Ethan laughs, giving me a light push on the chest.

“Go save the barbecue before your father-in-law gives up and we have to order pizza.”

“Good luck here,” I say, kissing his forehead. “Survive my mother.”

“I can handle it,” he replies confidently. “I think.”

We go our separate ways. Ethan enters the kitchen, and even before he can put on the apron, my mother is already pointing things out.

“Grab this platter here. No, not that one, the other one,” she says fast. “Clara, did you see where I put the garlic?”

“You put it on top of the microwave,” my mother-in-law answers, way too calm for the chaos.

“Ah. Right. Obviously,” my mother grumbles. “Ethan, my sweetheart, cut this here for me.”

“Like this?” he asks obediently.

“No, not like that,” she corrects. “Thinner. More delicate. You're not cutting onions; you're preparing a Christmas!”

My mother-in-law laughs.

“He is doing very well, Angela. You're the one who is anxious.”

“Anxious, my foot,” my mother fires back. “I am efficient.”

Ethan tries to hold back his laughter while cutting the vegetables, exchanging knowing glances with my mother-in-law.

“I never thought I'd spend Christmas being supervised like this,” he comments with a half-smile.

“Enjoy it. " My mother-in-law smiles. “This is love in the form of control.”

Meanwhile, I head to the backyard and find my father-in-law standing in front of the grill, arms crossed, staring at the charcoal as if it had personally challenged him.

“This here isn't right,” he says seriously.

“What exactly?”

“Everything,” he answers. “The fire won't catch. I think the wind is against us.”

“The wind doesn't have a side, sir,” I say, trying to light the charcoal. “We're the ones who don't know how to deal with it.”

He crouches down beside me.

“No, no. Not like that,” he points. “The charcoal has to be more to the left.”

“Whose left?”

“The grills," he answers, as if it were obvious.

“It doesn't have a left.”

“Yes, it does,” he insists. “This part here is the front. Therefore, that side over there is the left.”

“This is the front because you decided it just now?”

“Gabriel, I've been making barbecues for forty years,” he says, offended.

“And yet, the meat isn't cooking.”

He takes a deep breath.

“Give me the match.”

I hand him the match. He tries to light it. Nothing happens.

“See? It's not the position.”

“It's the charcoal,” he concludes. “This charcoal is being uncooperative.”

“Charcoal doesn't have a will.”

“Today it does.”

At that moment, my mother appears at the kitchen door.

“THERE SHOULD ALREADY BE FIRE OVER THERE! OR DO YOU WANT TO SERVE THE MEAT RAW?”

“WE ARE NEGOTIATING WITH THE CHARCOAL!” I yell back.

“NEGOTIATE FASTER!” she fires back, disappearing again.

My father-in-law laughs.

“Was she always like this?”

“Always,” I reply. “You get used to it… or you go crazy.”

Finally, the fire catches. Small and timid, but it catches.

“THERE!” he celebrates. “See? It was just patience.”

“Or fear of my mother.”

He agrees seriously.

“That too.”

We place the meat on the grate, the smell beginning to spread through the backyard. I look inside the house: Ethan is laughing in the kitchen, my mother is bossing everyone around, my mother-in-law is helping calmly, and loud music is playing something completely inappropriate for Christmas.

I look back at the fire.

“I think we did it.”

“We did,” he answers. “And look… it turned out good.”

I smile.

Because it really did.

“I'm going to grab the table,” I say, clapping my hands together. “Before we decide to eat everything standing up.”

“Good idea,” my father-in-law replies, fanning the fire with an almost religious concentration. “And make sure to bring enough glasses. I don't want to get up every two minutes.”

I enter the kitchen, and the scene is organized chaos. My mother is stirring two things at the same time, my mother-in-law organizes the platters with surgical calmness, and Ethan tastes something with a spoon.