Derby's Hot Tongue

"But mom, give him a break. He's trying," Selin said softly, her voice barely above a whisper—the kind of whisper that knows it's about to be steamrolled by a freight train wearing pearls.

"Trying?"

Derby Hartwell let out a dry, rasping laugh that sounded like a crow who'd just discovered it had been replaced in its nest by a particularly smug robin. Across the dining room, her butter knife began to scrape against a piece of toast—scrritch, scrritch—slow, measured, and agonizingly deliberate. The sound was the kind that makes dentists wince and dogs tilt their heads in confused sympathy.

She didn't look at her daughter. Instead, her eyes swept the wide dining table, scanning the faces of her family, gathering an audience for the performance about to begin. Derby Hartwell didn't simply speak—she held court, and this morning's court was about to convene for the trial of Ethan the Unemployed, Defendant of the Slightly Oval Pancake.

"Did everyone hear that?"

Silence.

Relatives instantly lowered their eyes to their plates, shifting in their chairs. They knew this routine better than they knew their own morning coffee orders. The cousins had developed an elaborate betting pool over which insult would land first, with Gavin holding a particularly lucrative side-bet on whether Ethan would finally crack before Easter.

"My daughter says her husband is trying." Derby nodded thoughtfully, setting the knife down with a deliberate clack against the porcelain—the kind of clack that makes an entire room flinch. "You know... I've been wondering something for three years now."

She finally turned to Selin, her smile wide, her eyes like ice. Specifically, the kind of ice that forms around the edges of a frozen lake right before someone tragically falls through.

"When, exactly, does trying become succeeding?"

The room went dead quiet. Air held in lungs. A few cousins exchanged knowing, amused glances—the kind shared by spectators who have seen this show a dozen times and know better than to interrupt, but also know they're going to be quoting the best lines at the golf course later. Gavin was already mentally composing his GroupMe update.

Derby reached for her coffee cup, cradling it in both hands like a villain monologuing over a crystal ball, her voice rising with dramatic rhythm that would have made a Shakespearean actor weep with envy.

"It's been three years. Three... long... years! Not three months. Not three weeks. Three years!" She lifted three fingers, waving them slowly in the air like she was conducting a particularly tragic symphony. "In three years, people build companies. They finish medical school. They become partners in law firms! They run for senate! They raise children! They climb Mount Everest! They learn fluent Mandarin! They write novels! They—"

She paused, visibly disappointed that no one was writing this down.

"But my useless, good-for-nothing trash of a son-in-law? In three years..." She paused for maximum dramatic effect, letting the silence build like a wave about to crash. "...he learned how to separate white towels from colored towels."

The dining room burst into instant laughter. Glasses clinked as two uncles toasted the punchline with the enthusiasm of men who've had three mimosas before 9 AM. Uncle Harold actually slapped the table so hard his poached egg wobbled dangerously close to the edge of his plate.

Down the middle of the table, Landon shook his head, though a smirk gave him away. He was Derby's favorite nephew, largely because he'd learned to time his quips with the precision of a stand-up comedian working the room. "Aunt Derby, come on. You're being unfair."

Derby arched a single, dangerous eyebrow. This particular eyebrow had been known to make junior associates at her law firm reconsider their entire career choices. "Oh, am I?"

"You're forgetting his other big achievement," Landon added.

"And what's that, Landon?"

"He makes very good pancakes," Landon quipped, delivering the line with the smug satisfaction of someone who'd rehearsed it in the mirror that morning.

Another wave of laughter rolled through the room. Uncle Harold's egg finally made its escape, splattering onto the tablecloth with a wet thwack, which somehow made everything funnier.

"And tea!" someone shouted from the foot of the table. It was Cousin Marcus, who'd been nursing a grudge against Ethan ever since Ethan had accidentally used his preferred mug for coffee last Thanksgiving.

"No, no," another voice piped up. This was Cousin Penelope, who'd recently been dumped by her boyfriend and had decided to channel her bitterness into the family pastime. "The tea is average. It's his apologies that are exceptional! They're practically artisanal! Small-batch! Locally sourced!"

Table-slapping laughter erupted. Feet shuffled, silverware rattled. Someone—probably Gavin—actually wheezed. The maid by the sideboard had to excuse herself, her shoulders shaking with the effort of professional composure.

Selin stared down at her lap, her fingers twisting her napkin into tight, pale knots. The napkin had been white when she started. Now it looked like it had been through the emotional wringer, which, to be fair, it had. "Can we please... not do this before breakfast?" she implored.

Derby turned, her face a picture of exaggerated innocence that wouldn't have fooled a toddler. "My dear... I haven't even started," she said.