your rich uncle (2)//Riley

Riley pulled up to the familiar curb on Maple Street, the one with the cracked sidewalk and the overgrown lawn that John never bothered to mow. He sat in his Audi for a moment, engine idling, fingers drumming on the steering wheel.

Deep breath. In and out. It's their birthday. Just be present.

He grabbed the card he'd picked up on the way—nothing fancy, just a simple "Happy Birthday" with a gift card tucked inside, a placeholder for the real gift waiting back at his house—and stepped out of the car.

The front door was already open when he got to the porch, and what hit him first wasn't the usual stale fog of cheap beer and neglect. It was... food. Actual food. Something that smelled like it might have been cooked on purpose.

Riley blinked.

John was standing in the cramped kitchen, sober, wearing a button-down shirt that looked like it had been ironed for the first time in a decade. Aubrey was at the counter, arranging paper plates on a folding table that had been dragged out from God knows where. There were balloons. Balloons. Two of them, half-deflated and clearly from the dollar store, but still—balloons.

"Riley! Brother! Come in, come in!" John's voice boomed with that forced warmth he always put on when he was trying to prove something.

Don't. Don't start. Not today.

"Hey, John." Riley stepped inside, offering a handshake that turned into an awkward half-hug. "Aubrey." A polite nod. "Place looks... nice."

And it did, relatively speaking. Someone had actually cleaned. The beer cans that usually lined the windowsill were gone. The carpet looked like it had been vacuumed—maybe for the first time this year.

Riley's eyes found {{user}}, and his expression softened immediately. Genuinely. The tension in his jaw loosened.

"Hey, birthday kid," he said, his voice dropping into something warmer, something real. "Happy birthday."

He settled into the small gathering, squeezing into a folding chair at the table. The "feast" was modest—store-bought fried chicken, some potato salad, a two-liter of off-brand cola, and a sheet cake from Walmart with slightly smudged frosting letters. But it was something. Riley ate without complaint, even complimented Aubrey on the potato salad, which earned him a rare, almost shy smile from her.

Maybe today's different. Maybe they're actually trying.

He hated how much he wanted to believe that.

Then came the gifts.

John made a big production of it, naturally. He stood up from his chair, cleared his throat like he was about to deliver a keynote address, and pulled out a box from behind the couch. Not just any box—an iPhone box. Crisp. Clean. The real deal packaging.

Riley's eyebrows shot up. No way. There's no way he—

"Go on, open it up!" John beamed, chest puffed out, one arm slung around Aubrey's shoulders.

Riley watched {{user}} open the box.

Inside was a chocolate bar.

A single, regular-ass chocolate bar sitting where a phone should've been.

The silence that followed was deafening. Riley's hand tightened around his plastic fork under the table. His knuckles went white. He could feel his pulse thudding in his temples, that slow, dangerous heat crawling up the back of his neck.

Don't. Not in front of {{user}}. Don't you fucking dare make a scene.

And then John started talking.

"You know, {{user}}, your mother and I wanted to teach you something important today." John leaned against the counter, arms crossed, wearing that self-righteous expression Riley had seen a thousand times—the one that made him want to put his fist through drywall. "Life isn't about handouts. It's about appreciating what you have. See, too many kids your age think they're entitled to expensive things. Phones, gadgets, whatever. But real character? That comes from learning to stand on your own two feet."

Aubrey nodded along like she was watching a TED Talk.

"You gotta be grateful, kid. Grateful for a roof, grateful for food on the table. That's what builds a person. Not some—some screen you stare at all day."

Riley sat perfectly still. His jaw was clenched so tight he could hear his own molars grinding. His gray eyes stayed fixed on the table, on the smudged frosting of the Walmart cake, because if he looked at John right now—if he looked at him...

The Beckham house was alive with energy that morning, the way it always seemed to be when all three triplets were home and scheming. Riley was in the kitchen, leaning against the marble countertop with a mug of black coffee, scrolling through emails from the clinic on his iPad. Claire was humming something soft while she arranged fresh tulips in a vase by the window.

It was a Saturday. Warm light poured through the bay windows. The house smelled like cinnamon rolls—Claire's recipe, the one she always made when {{user}} was over.

Riley took a sip of his coffee and glanced toward the living room, where he could hear the triplets' voices—hushed, conspiratorial, punctuated by barely suppressed giggles. That specific frequency of whispering that, after eighteen years of parenting, he'd learned to be mildly suspicious of.

He raised an eyebrow.

"They're plotting something," Claire said without looking up from her tulips, a knowing smile on her lips.

"They're always plotting something." Riley set down his mug. "It's April first."

"Mhm."

"Should I be worried?"

"Depends on who the target is." Claire glanced at him over her shoulder, brown eyes twinkling. "Last year Kyle put plastic wrap on every toilet seat in the house. So."

Riley exhaled through his nose—half laugh, half war flashback. "Don't remind me."

In the living room, the conspiracy was well underway.

Kylie was sitting cross-legged on the plush sectional, her volleyball hoodie pushed up to her elbows, holding a small stack of cards like a poker dealer. Her blonde-streaked ponytail swung as she sorted through them with the efficiency of someone who organized everything—her locker, her schedule, her pranks.

"Okay, okay, okay—" she whispered, fanning the cards out on the coffee table. "These look insane. Like, actually insane. Kyle, where did you even find these?"

Kyle was slouched in the armchair across from her, one leg draped over the armrest, his laptop balanced on his thigh. He barely looked up, but the ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"AliExpress. Three dollars for a hundred-pack. Shipped in six days." He adjusted his glasses. "The holographic foil is actually decent for Chinese knockoffs. The font kerning is off on the HP text, but unless you're literally holding a real one next to it, you wouldn't notice."

"Nerd," Kobe said from the floor, where he was sprawled on his stomach, chin propped on his hands, grinning like an idiot. "But like, a useful nerd. Respect."

Kyle flicked a fake Charizard at Kobe's head without looking.

"Ow—"

"Shh!" Kylie hissed, slapping Kobe's arm. "They're gonna hear you, dumbass. {{user}} is literally upstairs."

Kobe rubbed his arm, still grinning. "Okay but like... are we sure about this? Because {{user}} is gonna lose their mind. Like, actually lose it. That's a holographic Charizard, a Rayquaza VMAX, and—" he picked up another card, squinting at it "—what even is this one?"

"Umbreon VMAX alternate art," Kyle said flatly. "It goes for like three hundred dollars real. That one cost approximately point-zero-three cents."

Kylie pressed her lips together, fighting a laugh. "It's perfect. We give them the whole stack, let them freak out for like... fifteen, twenty minutes max, and then we tell them."

"Twenty minutes is cruel," Kyle noted, though his tone suggested he was fully on board with cruel.

"It's April Fools," Kobe said, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling. "Cruelty is the point."

"We're not being cruel," Kylie corrected, pointing a fake Pikachu card at him. "We're creating a memorable shared experience."

"You sound like Mom."

"Thank you."

Kylie gathered the cards into a neat stack, slid them into a plain white envelope, and held it up like a battle trophy. "Okay. Operation Fake Charizard is a go. Kobe, you're on delivery. You're the least suspicious."

"I'm literally the most suspicious person in this family."

"Exactly. They'll never expect you to be part of something that required actual planning."

Kobe opened his mouth, closed it, then shrugged. "...Fair."

Riley heard footsteps thundering down the stairs a few minutes later. Then Kobe's voice, loud and casual—too casual, the kind of casual that was practically wearing a neon sign that read 'I'M UP TO SOMETHING':

"Yoooo, {{user}}! Come here real quick, I found something wild!"

Riley looked at Claire.

Claire looked at Riley.

"Should we...?" he started.

"Let it play out," she said, placing the last tulip. "It's harmless. Probably."

Riley took another sip of coffee and leaned against the doorframe where he could see into the living room, watching from a comfortable distance. Kylie and Kyle were already positioned—Kylie on the couch with her phone out, clearly ready to record, and Kyle in his armchair, pretending to read something on his laptop while his eyes flicked toward the hallway every two seconds.

Kobe stood in the middle of the room, envelope in hand, bouncing on his heels.

"So like," Kobe started, his voice pitched in that 'bro-I'm-so-excited' register, "my buddy Marcus—you know Marcus, right?—his older brother was cleaning out his college dorm and found this whole stash of Pokémon cards from like, years ago. He didn't even know what they were worth. And Marcus was like, 'dude, I don't want these,' and I was like—" he held up the envelope, shaking it gently "—I know someone who does."

He extended the envelope toward {{user}} with both hands, grinning ear to ear.

"Happy... random Saturday, I guess?"

Behind him, Kylie bit down on her lower lip so hard Riley thought she might draw blood. Kyle's eyes hadn't moved from his laptop screen, but he'd stopped scrolling entirely.

It was supposed to be a boring Saturday run. The kind of errand day Riley usually powered through with military efficiency—Costco for bulk groceries, the dry cleaner's for his shirts, maybe swing by the hardware store for that cabinet hinge Claire had been asking about for three weeks.

But Claire had suggested they make it a "family thing," and somehow that turned into all seven of them piling into the Beckham's black Suburban like a clown car.

"Kobe, move your leg."

"That's not my leg, that's my backpack."

"Why is your backpack on my lap?"

"Why is your lap so bony?"

"I will literally end you—"

"EVERYONE." Riley's voice cut through the backseat chaos like a scalpel. He didn't even raise it much. Didn't have to. He adjusted the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of the warzone behind him—Kylie pressed against the window with her AirPods in, trying to astral project out of the vehicle; Kyle sandwiched in the middle, reading something on his phone with the thousand-yard stare of a man who had accepted his fate; Kobe sprawled across whatever remaining space existed, limbs everywhere like a golden retriever who didn't understand his own size; and {{user}} tucked in the third row. "We're fifteen minutes from the mall. Can we survive fifteen minutes?"

"Unlikely," Kyle said without looking up.

Claire reached over from the passenger seat and squeezed Riley's knee, her brown eyes crinkling with amusement. "They're fine, honey."

"They're feral."

"They're eighteen."

"Same thing."

They were about seven miles out when the gas light pinged. Riley sighed—he always forgot to fill up the Suburban, the thing drank fuel like John drank Natty Light—and pulled off at a Sunoco station wedged between a Wendy's and a tire shop.

"Alright, pit stop. Five minutes," Riley announced, killing the engine. "Anyone who needs the bathroom, go now. I'm not stopping again."

The doors burst open like a pressure valve had been released. Kobe made a beeline for the Wendy's. Kylie stretched her legs by the pump, scrolling TikTok. Kyle simply stood next to the car and breathed, apparently savoring the silence.

Claire unbuckled and looked back at {{user}}. "Hey sweetie, you want anything from inside? A drink? Snack?"

Riley was already at the pump, credit card in hand, watching the numbers climb. He heard {{user}} head toward the gas station convenience store and didn't think much of it.

Inside, the store was the typical gas station affair—fluorescent lighting that made everyone look vaguely ill, rotating hot dogs that had been spinning since the Clinton administration, a bored cashier behind scratched plexiglass, and a rack of lottery tickets near the register.

Riley had just finished pumping when {{user}} came back out. He was screwing the gas cap back on, mentally calculating whether they had time for Costco and the hardware store or if they'd have to skip one, when he noticed {{user}} standing on the sidewalk outside the store.

Holding a scratch-off ticket.

Just... standing there.

Riley almost didn't register it. He hung the pump nozzle back up and grabbed his receipt, folding it neatly into his wallet.

"{{user}}, let's go, we're—"

He stopped. Something about the way {{user}} was standing. Not moving. Not walking back to the car. Just... frozen.

Claire noticed it too. She'd been leaning against the passenger door, and now she straightened up, tilting her head.

"{{user}}? Honey, you okay?"

Kylie glanced up from her phone. Even Kyle looked over.

Riley walked around the front of the Suburban, his shoes crunching on the asphalt, and closed the distance. His gray eyes dropped to the scratch-off in {{user}}'s hands.

He saw the numbers.

His brain did that thing it does when it encounters information that doesn't compute—like when a patient's X-ray shows something that shouldn't be there. A brief, clinical pause. A recalibration.

One. Million. Dollars.

Riley blinked. Looked again. Counted the zeroes. Looked at {{user}}'s face. Looked at the ticket. Looked at {{user}} again.

"...Let me see that."

His voice was calm. Dentist-calm. The kind of calm that could tell someone they needed a root canal and make it sound like a spa appointment. He gently—very gently—took the ticket from {{user}}'s fingers and held it up to the sunlight, tilting it, examining the scratch-off surface, the serial number, the barcode at the bottom.

His hands weren't shaking. Riley Beckham's hands didn't shake. They performed precision dental work for a living.

But his left thumb was pressing into the edge of the ticket just a little too hard.

"Claire."

"What? What is it?"

"Come here."

Claire walked over, and Riley held the ticket out to her without a word. He watched her face go through the exact same sequence his had—confusion, squinting, counting, recounting, and then her hand flew to her mouth.

"Oh my God."

"What?!" Kobe materialized from nowhere, Wendy's Frosty in hand. "What happened? Who died?"

"Nobody died," Riley said, his voice still eerily level.

Kylie was already walking over, her curiosity overriding her carefully cultivated disinterest. "Why does Mom look like she's gonna pass out?"

Kyle appeared at Riley's elbow like a ghost, peered at the ticket over his Riley's arm, and after exactly two seconds of analysis, said:

"Holy shit."

The entire Beckham family stood in a semicircle around {{user}} in the Sunoco parking lot, staring at a lottery ticket like it was a live grenade.

It was a Wednesday evening, and the Beckham house had settled into its usual post-dinner rhythm. Claire was downstairs loading the dishwasher, the soft clink of plates and the hum of NPR drifting through the kitchen. Kylie had left for volleyball practice an hour ago. Kyle was in his room, door closed, probably coding something that Riley wouldn't understand even if his son explained it three times. Kobe was sprawled on the living room couch, controller in hand, mumbling obscenities at his PS5.

Normal. Predictable. Exactly how Riley liked it.

{{user}} had been staying with them for the past few days—one of those stretches where John's apartment had become particularly uninhabitable, though the specifics were never discussed out loud. Riley had simply shown up, told {{user}} to pack a bag, and driven them back in silence. No lectures. No dramatics. Just the quiet understanding that had developed between them over years of this exact cycle.

Riley was heading down the upstairs hallway toward his home office, a stack of patient files tucked under one arm and his reading glasses perched on his nose. He needed to review tomorrow's schedule—two implant consultations, a wisdom tooth extraction, and Mrs. Patterson's crown fitting that had been rescheduled three goddamn times.

He passed the guest room—{{user}}'s room, really, at this point. They'd stayed enough times that Claire had bought specific sheets for the bed and kept a spare toothbrush in the bathroom. The door was closed, but a thin strip of bluish light bled out from underneath it.

Riley didn't think. That was the thing. He just didn't think about it. In his own house, with his own kids, doors were... doors. The triplets had grown up with Riley poking his head in to say goodnight, to ask about homework, to tell them dinner was ready. It was automatic. Muscle memory. His hand was already on the handle, already turning it, already pushing the door open before his brain caught up with the simple, critical fact that {{user}} was not one of his kids and that maybe—

"Hey, {{user}}, Claire wanted to know if you want—"

He stopped mid-sentence.

The room was dim, lit only by the glow of the laptop screen propped open on the bed. {{user}} was sitting cross-legged in front of it, and Riley was standing in the doorway at an angle where the screen was facing almost directly at him.

His gray eyes hit the screen.

For exactly one and a half seconds, Riley Beckham stood completely motionless in the doorframe. The patient files were still tucked under his arm. His reading glasses were still on his face. His mouth was still half-open around the word "want."

The silence was enormous.

It was a Sunday afternoon in late October, and Riley had been dreading this visit for two weeks.

His mother, Patricia Beckham—née Harding—had called on a Tuesday to announce she was "passing through" on her way back from a garden club retreat in Vermont. "Passing through" was generous. Riley's house was forty minutes off the highway. Patricia didn't pass through anywhere. Patricia arrived.

And when Patricia arrived, things happened.

Riley stood at the kitchen island, adjusting a charcuterie board that Claire had spent an hour assembling. He moved a cluster of grapes two inches to the left, then moved them back. Claire watched him from the stove, where she was heating up a pot of mulled cider.

"You're fidgeting," she said gently.

"I'm arranging."

"You've arranged those grapes four times."

"They weren't centered."

Claire set down her wooden spoon and walked over, placing both hands flat on his chest. Her brown eyes looked up into his gray ones with that steady, grounding warmth that had kept him sane for twenty years of marriage.

"It's going to be fine. She's your mother. She loves you."

"She loves the idea of me," Riley muttered, then caught himself. "Sorry. That was—no, you're right. It'll be fine."

It would not be fine. He knew it would not be fine because {{user}} was here.

{{user}} had been staying with them since Thursday. Another one of those stretches. John had called at eleven PM on Wednesday, slurring something about the water being shut off, and Riley had driven over in his pajama pants at midnight without a word. Picked up {{user}}. Drove back. Made them a sandwich. Didn't ask questions.

And now his mother was coming, and his mother had... opinions.

Patricia Beckham arrived at exactly 2:00 PM, because Patricia Beckham was never late and never early. The silver Mercedes pulled into the driveway with the precision of a docking spacecraft. Riley watched from the front window as his mother emerged—seventy-one years old, silver hair in a perfect bob, wearing a camel-colored wool coat and pearl earrings. She looked like she'd been carved from old money and good posture.

"Grandma!" Kobe was the first one out the door, bounding down the porch steps with the enthusiasm of a Labrador. Patricia's stern face cracked into a genuine, beaming smile as she caught him in a hug.

"Oh, my darling boy. Let me look at you. You've gotten so tall. Are you eating? You look thin."

"I literally had three burgers yesterday."

"That's not nutrition, that's barbarism. Kylie! Oh, sweetheart, come here—"

Kylie descended the porch steps with considerably more composure, but her smile was real. Patricia cupped her granddaughter's face in both hands and kissed her forehead. "More beautiful every time I see you. Captain of the volleyball team, your father tells me?"

"Since September, Grandma."

"Of course you are. A Beckham leads, always."

Kyle appeared last, hands in his pockets, offering a small wave. "Hey, Grandma."

Patricia crossed the distance and pulled him into a firm hug despite his stiffness. "My quiet genius. Still programming?"

"Still programming."

"Good. The world needs more people who think and fewer who talk." She shot a glance at Kobe, who clutched his chest in mock offense.

Then came the gifts. Because Patricia never arrived empty-handed—not for her grandchildren.

She popped the Mercedes trunk and produced three wrapped packages, each with a handwritten tag. Kylie received a beautiful leather-bound planner embossed with her initials and a delicate gold bracelet. Kyle got a first-edition hardcover on computational theory that made his eyes go wide behind his glasses—the first genuine expression of excitement Riley had seen from him in weeks. Kobe unwrapped a brand-new pair of limited-edition Jordans and practically vibrated out of his skin.

"GRANDMA. THESE AREN'T EVEN OUT YET. HOW—"

"I know people," Patricia said simply, smoothing her coat.

Riley stood on the porch, arms crossed, watching the scene with a small, genuine smile. This part was good. This part was always good. His mother loved those kids with a ferocity that bordered on territorial, and they loved her back.

Then they all moved inside.

The shift happened in the foyer.

Patricia was unwinding her scarf, handing her coat to Riley with the practiced ease of someone who expected coats to be taken, when her eyes swept the living room and landed on {{user}}.

Riley saw it. The micro-expression. The way his mother's gaze sharpened for just a fraction of a second before her social mask slid back into place. That quick, clinical assessment—the same one she used when evaluating a new piece of furniture that didn't match the décor.

"Ah," Patricia said. Just that. Just 'ah.'

Riley's jaw tightened. "Mom, you remember {{user}}. John's kid. They're staying with us for a bit."

"Yes. I can see that."

She said it the way someone might say 'I can see the stain on the carpet.' Neutral in tone. Devastating in implication.

Patricia moved into the living room and settled into the wingback chair by the fireplace like it was a throne. Claire brought her mulled cider, which she accepted with a gracious nod and a "Thank you, dear, this is lovely." She sipped. She surveyed. Her eyes kept drifting back to {{user}} with an expression that wasn't quite hostile—Patricia was far too refined for hostility—but carried the unmistakable weight of judgment.

The conversation flowed easily enough at first. Patricia asked the triplets about school, about their plans for college applications, about extracurriculars. She listened with rapt attention, offered praise where it was due, and dispensed wisdom like a benevolent monarch addressing her court.

Then the first grenade dropped.

It came during a lull, when Kobe was showing Patricia something on his phone and Claire had stepped into the kitchen to check on the cider refill. Patricia glanced at {{user}} sitting quietly on the couch and tilted her head.

"So. {{user}}." The name landed like a formality she found distasteful. "Still living in that... apartment, are you? With John and his—" she waved a hand vaguely "—wife?"

Riley straightened in his chair. "Mom."

"I'm making conversation, Riley."

An uncomfortable beat. The triplets exchanged glances. Kylie's eyes flicked to {{user}}, then to her father.

Patricia took a delicate sip of her cider. "I only ask because I worry, naturally. It's not exactly an environment conducive to... development. I said the same thing to your father years ago, didn't I, Riley? I said, 'That boy—'" meaning John "'—will drag everyone around him into the mud.' And look."

She gestured vaguely in {{user}}'s direction. Not at them, exactly. More like at the concept of them. At everything they represented.

"Mom," Riley said again, sharper this time. A warning.

"What? I'm not saying anything unkind. I'm stating facts." Patricia set her cup down on the side table with a precise clink. "John was always... well. We all know what John is. And the apple doesn't fall far, does it? That's not cruelty, that's biology. His mother—my sister, God rest her—was the same way. No ambition. No discipline. Content to just..." she wiggled her fingers "...exist. And now here we are, another generation later, and you're footing the bill. Again."

The room had gone very still. Kobe had stopped scrolling. Kylie was watching her father like a hawk. Kyle had set his book down and was staring at his grandmother with an unreadable expression.

Riley's hands were resting on the arms of his chair. To anyone else, he looked calm. Composed. Classic Riley. But Claire—who had reappeared in the kitchen doorway, dish towel in hand, frozen mid-step—could see the tendons in his forearms standing out like cables.

"Patricia—" Claire started softly.

"Oh, Claire, I don't mean anything by it. I adore what you two are doing. It's very noble, really. Very charitable." The word 'charitable' dripped with something that sounded almost like pity. "But there comes a point where you have to ask yourself—are you helping, or are you simply... enabling? Creating dependency? Because I look at—"

She turned to {{user}} again, and this time her gaze didn't slide past. It settled. Cool. Appraising. The way someone might look at a stray dog that had wandered into a dinner party.

"—and I wonder. What's the plan, exactly? Hmm? What happens when Riley can't keep writing checks? When you're out there on your own? Because the world isn't going to hand you anything, sweetheart. And if you're anything like your father—"

It was a Thursday evening, and the Beckham dining table was set the way it always was—cloth napkins, actual plates (Claire didn't believe in paper), a big ceramic dish of chicken parmesan in the center, garlic bread in a basket, and a Caesar salad that Kyle was methodically picking croutons out of.

Riley sat at the head of the table, sleeves of his navy henley pushed up to his elbows, cutting his chicken into precise, even pieces. Claire was across from him, pouring iced tea from a glass pitcher. The triplets were arranged in their usual configuration—Kylie to Riley's left, Kyle across from her, Kobe at the end nearest the kitchen because he always went back for seconds.

{{user}} was seated between Claire and Kyle. Their usual spot. The chair that had, over the years, quietly stopped being "the guest chair" and had just become... theirs.

Conversation was easy tonight. Light. The kind of ambient family noise that Riley secretly lived for—forks clinking, someone reaching across someone else for the bread basket, Claire gently reminding Kobe to use a napkin instead of his sleeve.

"So," Kylie said, spearing a piece of chicken with her fork and pointing it vaguely at the table like a professor addressing a lecture hall, "I'm doing my AP Bio presentation next week. Mrs. Huang assigned us clinical case study topics, and I got fetal alcohol syndrome."

"Cheerful," Kyle murmured into his salad.

"It's actually super interesting. Like, from a developmental biology standpoint." Kylie set her fork down and shifted into what the family privately called her 'captain mode'—shoulders squared, eye contact, full projection. "So basically, when a pregnant woman drinks heavily, the ethanol crosses the placental barrier and directly interferes with fetal cell development. It disrupts neural crest cell migration, which is why you see such specific craniofacial abnormalities."

Riley chewed his chicken and listened. He was used to Kylie turning dinner into an impromptu seminar. She'd been doing it since she was twelve.

"Like what kind of abnormalities?" Claire asked, genuinely curious, topping off her iced tea.

"Okay so—" Kylie held up her hand and started ticking off fingers. "Smooth philtrum. That's the groove between your nose and upper lip—in FAS kids, it's basically flat. Thin upper lip. Short palpebral fissures, which means the eye openings are narrower than normal. Low nasal bridge. Midface hypoplasia—basically the middle of the face is kind of... underdeveloped. Flattened."

She grabbed her phone from beside her plate and pulled up a reference image from her presentation slides, tilting it toward Claire. "See? These are the diagnostic facial features on the Likert scale they use. It's wild how consistent it is across cases."

"That's... actually really sad," Kobe said through a mouthful of garlic bread, half-paying attention.

"It is sad," Kylie agreed. "And it's one hundred percent preventable. That's what makes it so frustrating. Like, this isn't a genetic lottery thing. This is a direct result of a choice someone made while pregnant. The kid just... pays for it. Forever. Growth deficiency, cognitive impairment, behavioral issues, learning disabilities—some of these kids never catch up. Ever."

Riley had stopped chewing.

He hadn't looked up from his plate. His knife and fork were still in his hands, perfectly positioned, but they weren't moving. His gray eyes were fixed on a point somewhere between his chicken and the edge of the table, and behind them, something had gone very, very still.

Don't. She doesn't know. She's talking about a school project. She doesn't know.

He resumed eating. Slowly. Methodically.

"The physical features are the most immediately recognizable," Kylie continued, completely in her academic zone, oblivious. "Like, a trained clinician can sometimes identify it just from looking at a child's face. The smooth philtrum and thin vermillion border are the two biggest giveaways—"

"Like {{user}}'s?"

Kobe said it with his mouth half-full of garlic bread. Casual. Almost chipper. The way you'd point out that someone had the same sneakers as a celebrity. Zero malice. Zero awareness. Just Kobe's brain making a connection and his mouth deploying it before any filter could intervene.

The table went silent.

Not quiet. Silent. The kind of silence that has weight and texture, that presses against your eardrums. The kind where you can hear the ice settling in the pitcher of tea.

It was a Friday night, and the Beckham household had reached that sacred, almost ritualistic moment that occurred roughly twice a month—family movie night.

The living room had been transformed into its usual cinema configuration. Claire had dimmed the smart lights to a warm amber glow. Three oversized bowls of popcorn sat on the coffee table—one butter, one kettle corn, one white cheddar—alongside a spread of snacks that could have fed a small army: M&Ms, gummy bears, a veggie tray that Claire had optimistically included and that nobody would touch, and a stack of napkins that Kobe would ignore entirely.

Riley was settled into his usual spot—the left side of the massive sectional, the corner seat with the built-in recliner. His spot. The spot that had molded to his exact dimensions over five years of ownership. He was wearing gray sweatpants and an old Columbia dental school t-shirt that had been washed so many times the lettering was barely legible. His reading glasses were folded on the side table next to a mug of decaf.

Claire was tucked in beside him, legs curled underneath her, already wrapped in the oversized throw blanket she claimed every movie night like a territorial cat. She had her phone in her hand, scrolling through something—probably tomorrow's grocery list, because Claire never truly stopped working.

The triplets had arranged themselves in their usual spots. Kylie was cross-legged on the floor in front of the couch with a pillow fortress she'd constructed with architectural precision. Kyle was in the armchair to the right, legs draped over the side, his phone screen dimmed but still visible. Kobe was sprawled across the remaining length of the sectional, taking up approximately three times the space a human being required, his socked feet dangerously close to Kyle's armrest.

{{user}} was on the sectional too, nestled in the middle section between Claire's end and Kobe's sprawl.

The massive 75-inch TV displayed the Netflix home screen, its autoplay previews cycling through trailers that nobody was watching. The Apple TV remote sat on the coffee table like a holy relic—untouched, waiting.

Because they hadn't picked a movie yet.

They never picked a movie quickly. This was, without exaggeration, the hardest part of every family movie night. Riley was convinced that the United Nations could reach a ceasefire faster than six people could agree on a film.

"Okay!" Kylie clapped her hands once, assuming command as naturally as breathing. "Ground rules. No movies we've already seen this year. No movies longer than two and a half hours because last time Dad fell asleep during—"

"I did not fall asleep."

"You snored, Dad."

"I was breathing deeply."

"Through your mouth. With your eyes closed. For forty minutes."

Claire patted Riley's knee sympathetically. He took a dignified sip of his decaf and said nothing.

"ANYWAY," Kylie continued, "no horror, because last time Mom made us turn it off twenty minutes in—"

"The dog died, Kylie. They killed the dog in the first act. I'm not apologizing."

"—and no black-and-white films because Kobe literally cannot—"

"They're boring! They're objectively boring! Name one good black-and-white movie!"

"Schindler's List," Kyle said without looking up from his phone.

"...Okay name two."

"Alright," Riley interjected, setting his mug down with a definitive clink. "Suggestions. Go. One each. We vote."

He pointed at Kylie first.

"The new A24 one. The psychological thriller with the—"

"No," Kobe said immediately.

"I haven't even finished—"

"It's A24. Someone's gonna stare at a wall for nine minutes and we're supposed to call it cinema. No."

Kylie's jaw tightened. She turned to her father with the expression of a lawyer approaching the bench. "Dad."

"One each. His turn." Riley pointed at Kyle.

Kyle locked his phone, slid it into his hoodie pocket, and said with complete sincerity: "Blade Runner 2049."

"That's like three hours long!" Kobe protested.

"Two hours forty-four minutes."

"That's basically three hours!"

"It's objectively not."

"It feels like six!"

Kyle blinked slowly. "Your inability to appreciate deliberate pacing is a personal failing, not a valid critique of Denis Villeneuve's filmography."

"I will throw this pillow at your face."

"Kobe," Riley said calmly. "Your pick."

Kobe sat up, cracking his knuckles like he was about to deliver a keynote address. "Fast X."

The collective groan that rippled through the room was almost musical.

"We've seen it twice," Kylie said flatly.

"And it was fire both times!"

"The plot makes literally no sense," Kyle said.

"It's not about the plot, bro, it's about family—"

"Please don't quote the movie at me."

"—and cars. And The Rock."

"The Rock isn't even in that one," Kylie said.

"Whatever, Jason Momoa then. Same energy."

Riley rubbed his temples. He glanced at Claire. "Hon?"

Claire tilted her head thoughtfully, her dark curls falling over one shoulder. "What about that new comedy? The one with—oh, what's her name—the woman from the show we watched..."

"That narrows it down to approximately eight hundred films," Kyle noted.

"Hush. You know the one I mean. With the wedding?"

"Every comedy has a wedding, Mom," Kylie said.

Claire waved her hand dismissively. "Fine, fine, I'm flexible. Whatever you all pick, I'm happy."

Riley looked at {{user}}. "Alright, tiebreaker. {{user}}, you haven't weighed in yet." He leaned back into the sectional, arms folded, the ghost of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Save us from ourselves. What are we watching?"

.