Chapter 24 The ghost at the table
The swinging door from the kitchen settled with a soft click as Liam stepped back into the dining room. The atmosphere was still brittle, like a sheet of ice waiting for the first footfall to shatter it. I followed closely behind him, clutching the coffee carafe as if it were a lifebuoy.
Liam stood at the head of the table for a moment, his posture stiff, his eyes downcast. He cleared his throat, a sound that drew every eye in the room toward him—including Victor’s, which remained cool and analytical.
"I... I want to say something," Liam began, his voice steadying as he spoke. "I want to apologize. To Mr. Blackwood, to Vane, and especially to Elena’s parents. I let my emotions get the better of me. It’s a special day, and I acted in a way that didn't show the respect this house and this celebration deserve. I was wrong. I hope you can all accept my apology."
A collective breath seemed to leave the room. My father was the first to nod, his expression softening. "It takes a man to admit when he’s strayed off the path, Liam. Thank you."
Victor’s response was a masterpiece of restraint. He inclined his head slightly, a small, polite smile playing on his lips. "Apology accepted, Liam. Stress can make us all act out of character. Let’s focus on the birthday girl, shall we?"
With the tension officially "settled," the mood began to shift into something almost cozy. It was cake time. The rich chocolate aroma filled the air as my mother brought the cake to the center of the table. Leo, still in his designer Burberry, had his sticky hands dangerously close to the frosting, his eyes wide with sugary anticipation.
The table broke into different pockets of conversation. Maya, true to her nature, had leaned into Victor's space, her black dress shimmering as she animatedly chatted with "Mr. Grinch" about his estate’s garden. To my surprise, Vane had turned to Liam, and the two were deep in a discussion about the local football league. Vane’s easy-going nature seemed to act as a buffer, and Liam looked relieved to be talking about something as safe and predictable as sports.
But while the laughter rose, my mother remained oddly silent. She was sitting directly across from Victor, and she hadn't touched her cake. Her eyes were fixed on his face with an intensity that felt heavy, almost spiritual.
"Is everything alright, Mom?" I whispered, reaching for her hand.
She didn't look at me. Her gaze remained locked on Victor. "You look like my Jacob," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Exactly like my son."
The laughter at the table died down. Victor’s smile remained firm, but his brow furrowed in curiosity. "You have a son, Mrs. M? I didn't know. Where is he?"
"We lost him," she said, her voice cracking. "There was a conflict—a small local war near the border where he was stationed as a medic a few years back. The records say he was lost in an explosion, but..." She paused, tears starting to roll down her cheeks. "He would be thirty-one this year. Or, he is thirty-one."
My father immediately moved his hand over hers, his face a mask of weary sorrow. "She’s still very sensitive about Jacob," he explained to the guests, his voice low. "It’s hard to bury a memory when you don't have a body to lay to rest. Especially this year... she’s been certain he’s alive. She says she can feel him through her heart, like a tether that hasn't snapped yet."
Vane leaned forward, his usual jocularity replaced by a gentle, professional tone. "It’s actually a documented psychological phenomenon, Mrs. M," he said softly. "When we experience a trauma without closure—what we call 'ambiguous loss'—the brain refuses to accept the finality. It’s a survival mechanism. Your subconscious looks for patterns, for familiar faces, to bridge the gap between hope and reality. It’s why you might see him in a stranger’s smile or a similar jawline. It’s your heart’s way of keeping the light on."
Victor listened intently, his expression uncharacteristically soft. "I'm honored that I remind you of someone so dear, even if it's painful."
"No, it's not just a feeling," my mother insisted, wiping her eyes with her napkin. She stood up and hurried to the sideboard, pulling an old, leather-bound album from the drawer. She flipped through the pages with shaking fingers until she found a small, faded photograph.
She handed it to Victor.
The table went silent again as Victor took the photo. I leaned over his shoulder to look. It was a picture of a young boy, maybe 3 or 4 years old, standing in front of a school bus. He had the same dark, intense eyes, the same slight arch to his eyebrows, and the same stubborn set to his chin.
Victor froze. He reached into his own pocket and pulled out his phone, scrolling through his digital archives until he found a photo of himself at the same age. He placed the phone on the table next to the physical photograph.
The resemblance was chilling. They didn't just look similar; they looked like identical twins born decades apart.
"He looks exactly like me," Victor breathed, his voice barely audible. "Even my childhood pictures... they are a mirror image of this boy."
Vane let out a short, sharp whistle, trying to break the eerie tension that had fallen over the room. "Well," he chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "Seems someone finally found his long-lost lookalike! Guess there’s only one face like that in the world, and now we’ve found two."
Vane, as always, didn't take it too seriously, treating it as a bizarre coincidence of genetics. But as my mother looked at Victor and Victor looked at the photo of the boy named Jacob, the air in the room felt electric.
The locket from Liam was forgotten. The designer dress was just fabric. In that moment, the "stranger" at our table felt less like a guest and more like a ghost that had finally come home. I looked at Maya, whose eyes were wide with a new kind of fear. This wasn't just a rivalry between two men anymore; something deeper, something older, was beginning to pull at the foundations of our family.