Chapter 1
Chapter 1: Welcome to the Circus
I should have known things would go south the moment I pulled up to the house in the middle of nowhere, where Thanksgiving was about to become my personal baptism by fire.
Moving to California had been a fresh start for me. I was working as a software specialist for a French company—thanks to my ability to speak four languages—and adjusting to the West Coast lifestyle. And then, I met Roy. Handsome, romantic, sweet, sexy—a surfer with a mischievous smirk and the most beautiful blue eyes I had ever seen. He was everything I had been waiting for, the kind of man who made me think, this is it, I’ve finally met the one.
After six months of dating, he asked me if I wanted to meet his parents. They lived in a small rural town in the Midwest called Trenton. “Be careful, it’s going to be cold, so make sure you wear or bring warm clothes,” he warned.
Wanting to make a good impression, I called my friend Fabrizio—who is a fashion brand owner—for advice. “Simple cashmere sweater, nice jeans, comfortable but stylish shoes. Less is more,” he said, before adding, “Remember, we’re Italian. We do not wear sweatpants outside unless we are working out. Also, a simple jewel, but very discreet—you’re not a show-off!”
The warmest items I had in my wardrobe were a windproof, waterproof coat, a couple of cashmere sweaters, a pair of sweatpants for lounging indoors, weatherproof Vans sneakers, and my black togo leather Ralph Lauren maxi tote bag. I was excited at the airport and wanted to make a thoughtful gesture, so before heading to the gate, I bought a box of chocolates for Roy’s mom.
The flight went smoothly. Roy, looking effortlessly handsome, wore an aviator hat, a navy blue coat, jeans, and boots. He fell asleep shortly after takeoff, leaving me to daydream about his family and how much I missed the warmth of family gatherings. Ever since I moved abroad and lost my father six years earlier, holidays had felt incomplete.
He had told me a bit about his family—his mother, Crystel, a therapist and counselor; his father, a retired cook who had worked in Crystel’s parents’ restaurant, now run by her three sisters. His two sisters, Camilla and Chery, were both married with kids. Camilla had a three-year-old son, Mick, and didn’t work, as she was busy raising him. Her husband, Frank, had inherited his father’s construction business and became a multimillionaire in just five years. Chery was a nurse at the town’s clinic, and her husband, Jack, also worked for Frank. Their 17-year-old son Nathan had recently started working for Frank as well. It all sounded so stable, so grounded—the kind of warmth and security I longed for.
As we landed, Roy’s phone rang. It was his mother, letting him know that despite the heavy snowfall, his father had decided to drive an hour and a half to pick us up from the airport.
His father turned out to be a gruff but sweet man in his early seventies, with the same smirk and piercing blue eyes as Roy. As we drove through the blizzard, wind gusts making visibility almost impossible, I realized just how remote this town really was.
After an hour and a half, we finally arrived. Their house was large, with a welcoming porch, a two-car garage, and a vast 30-acre field in the back. And the color palette—somber stone and gray—gave it a neutral feel.
Crystel opened the door, a well-kept woman in her late sixties or early seventies. She warmly welcomed us inside, giving Roy a big hug before turning to me with a kind but evaluating gaze.
Stepping inside, I was immediately struck by the décor. A large leather sectional couch faced the fireplace, a separate reading room housed an enormous Christmas tree (At Thanksgiving?), and there were decorations everywhere—on shelves, tables, walls. It looked like a department store exploded inside a cabin.
Crystel asked about our trip and if we were tired. She then mentioned that Roy’s two sisters, Camilla and Chery, were having lunch at a Mexican restaurant in town and had already reserved seats for us.
Roy borrowed his father’s car, and we drove to El Sombrero for lunch. When we arrived, I noticed his sisters were still sitting inside their car, watching us, likely exchanging first impressions about me before officially meeting me.
Camilla, the youngest, was a tall, thin blonde with curly hair and striking blue eyes. Chery, the middle sibling, was slightly curvier but equally beautiful, with the same blue eyes. Their Norwegian bloodline was evident—I struggled to see any trace of the Greek heritage Roy had mentioned.
They greeted me with warm smiles and firm handshakes before wrapping Roy in tight hugs.
Once inside, I found it amusing that we were eating Mexican food in the middle of a snowy Midwestern town. The atmosphere was colorful and lively. When the waiter came, I ordered in Spanish (another language I speak)—a habit of mine, as I’ve learned that when they know you speak their language, they’re less likely to mess with your order, and sometimes, you even get extra chips.
Their eyebrows raised slightly, but they continued with polite conversation. “So, where are you from?” “Why is your English so good?” “What do you do for work?” The usual small talk. The first impression seemed pleasant, and for a fleeting moment, I thought, Maybe this is one of those rare occasions where things are exactly as they seem.
But as we say in Italy—especially in Rome—always expect the unexpected. And I really should have.
Upon our return from lunch, we got back to his parents’ house, where the fireplace was warming up the entire room, setting a cozy atmosphere for a family gathering. We went upstairs to our room, where fresh linens, blankets, and pillows awaited us, along with countless framed photos of Roy’s sisters and his daughters. I opened my bag, grabbed the See’s Candies chocolate box I had bought at the airport, and went downstairs where Crystel was sitting on the couch.
“Mrs. Taylor, this is a small gift to thank you for having me here. It’s a real pleasure to get to know you,” I said, handing her the box.
“Aww, call me Crystel,” she smiled, seemingly touched. But as soon as she glanced at the box, her expression changed. “Thank you, but we don’t eat dark chocolate. None of us like it.”
I froze. Shit.
“I am really sorry, I was not aware that they were dark chocolate. I was in a rush and did not properly checked” Crystel must have felt bad and said “don’t worry, I appreciate the gesture anyway” and she walked away with the box. In cases like these, the general rule would be to thank the gifter and consider sharing the chocolates with loved ones to spread the joy and warmth that comes with chocolate gifting. However, with this being a different country and a different culture, I did not take it personally. Probably there’s a different etiquette. I went upstairs and embarrassingly shared what happened with Roy. “I think I made a mistake by picking a dark chocolate box for your mum” he looked at me and said “oh...they don’t like dark chocolate. I should have told you that, I am sorry. I hope she was at least thankful ” “oh, yes. Definitely she appreciated the gesture. I thought the chocolate was mixed and I didn’t check. My bad. Hopefully this won’t make me lose points” he chuckled and said “don’t be silly, everyone will love you as much as I do, i promise”
Cheryl opened the door with a peppy, high-pitched greeting: “Hiii!” She seemed like a strong but funny woman with a down-to-earth character. Roy had previously told me about her difficult past with an ex-boyfriend—how the relationship had turned abusive and toxic, and how, thankfully, the family had helped her get out of trouble. That was all before she met her husband, Jack, and gave birth to Nathan. I could tell right away that her mouth was a loud one—but not in a mean or rude way, more like someone who had been through hell and back and simply didn’t have the time or energy to sugarcoat things anymore. I kind of admired her already.
I was still upstairs, finishing putting on some comfy clothes when I heard her calling for Roy, who was in the bathroom next to our room. I peeped out of the bedroom door and gently said from the top of the stairs, “Hey Cheryl, Roy’s in the bathroom but we’ll be down in a minute.”
I knocked softly on the bathroom door, and almost immediately, Roy cheekily opened it just wide enough to pull me inside by the waist. He closed the door behind me, wrapped his arms around me, and whispered with a mischievous grin, “I’m afraid they won’t let me breathe the entire time we’re here. But hopefully, at some point tonight, I’ll manage to desecrate this bedroom with you.” I laughed, pushing him playfully. He kissed me, his eyes locked on mine, and then added, “Alright, let’s go downstairs and feed these gossipers the meat they’ve been waiting for, shall we?” I rolled my eyes, still giggling, and nodded in agreement.
We made our way downstairs, where Crystel and Cheryl were already settled in the living room, casually sipping their “afternoon tea”—which was definitely not tea, but rather a couple of generous glasses of wine. Cheryl looked up as we entered the room and asked, “So… are you tired yet? You must be exhausted from the trip.”
“Not really,” I replied with a polite smile. “We took a power nap on the plane, so I’m actually feeling quite relaxed now.”
“Glad to hear that,” Cheryl said warmly. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself. I mean, there’s not a whole lot to do in Trenton, especially in winter. Compared to where you live, this town must feel like a ghost town.” She paused, swirling her wine in the glass, then added, “But you know… we make the most out of it. Roy used to get into all sorts of trouble with his friends around here—small-town kids, not much else to do.”
“Hey now!” Roy chimed in, feigning offense. “That’s not fair, especially in front of her!”
Cheryl shot him a witty smirk. “Oh please, Roy. Don’t act like you were a saint.” Then she turned toward me, winked, and added under her breath, “He was a menace.” I laughed, and I was starting to think I really liked her. She gave me the vibe of one of those women who had been chewed up and spat out by life, yet managed to rise stronger and completely unfazed by anyone’s judgment.
Suddenly, Crystel’s phone rang, interrupting the conversation. She got up from her chair, still in her cozy home attire, and answered it. “Oh… it’s Camilla,” she announced, looking over at Cheryl with mild curiosity. “Let’s see what she’s up to.”
We could all overhear her conversation. “Yeah, Milly, we’re all here hangin’ out… Oh… I see… sure, we’ll pop by in five minutes. Alright.” Crystel hung up and turned to us. “Camilla just had the new dining chairs delivered at the house, but she doesn’t like them. She wants us to come over and give our opinion. Do you guys feel like going?”
Cheryl and Roy exchanged a glance, both reading the subtle subtext behind the invitation but choosing to stay neutral. “Sure, let’s go,” Roy finally said.
I grabbed my coat and followed them outside. “It’s just about 300 yards from here,” Cheryl said, brushing off the light snowfall from her hair. “We’d normally walk over, but it’s still snowing, so let’s take the car.”
Less than a minute later, the car pulled in front of a jaw-dropping, massive, all-white mansion. The house was so big it could have been mistaken for a boutique hotel. It towered before us like a monument to wealth, standing in stark contrast to the modest countryside surroundings.
Crystel proudly presented it to Roy like it was a trophy. “This is Camilla and Frank’s new house. Frank started building it about eight months ago. They probably won’t move in until spring, but it’s almost done.”
Roy’s jaw dropped. ”Why this big?" he blurted out. “I mean… they’re only three people in the family.”
Cheryl chuckled bitterly. ”I know, right?" she said. “But Frank doesn’t do ‘small.’ Apparently, his brother Greg has already started measuring every surface in the house because when he builds his, he’s determined to make it even an inch bigger than Frank’s.”
“Yeah,” Crystel added dryly as she stepped out of the car. ”We’ll see about that." There was a noticeable tone of bitterness in her voice, and I made a mental note of it.
We entered the house through the garage, climbing four steps into a small mudroom that led directly into the heart of the house—the kitchen. And what a kitchen it was. A massive, all-white modern farmhouse-style kitchen. White walls, white sinks, white marble countertops, white cabinets, white lights—so much white that it almost hurt my eyes.
“Hi guys!” Camilla greeted us enthusiastically, walking toward us with a polished, rehearsed smile. “Welcome to our new home!”
The kitchen island alone could fit a family of ten. Cheryl walked toward it, stretched her arm, and said, “Oh my God… look at the size of this island. Even if I tried, I wouldn’t be able to reach the center.”
“It’s 118 by 180 inches,” Crystel said proudly, as if the island’s size was a direct reflection of the family’s success.
Camilla beamed. “Yeah! Frank loves to bake, so we thought a big island would be perfect for family gatherings and holidays. I can already picture us all here, cooking together.”
I smiled politely, despite the kitchen not being my style at all. I appreciated its grandeur, but something about the staged, magazine-perfect aesthetic of it felt cold and sterile. I opted for a diplomatic answer. “It’s really impressive. It’s clear how much thought you put into making it a family space.”
Camilla, Crystel, and Cheryl all smiled, clearly pleased by my response.
The house tour continued. The ground floor had two living rooms, a butler’s pantry, a reading room, a dining room, and even a fireplace room. Upstairs was even more ridiculous—Camilla’s personal wardrobe room, Mick’s sprawling playroom, two separate bathrooms for Camilla and Frank, and a guest bedroom (which Camilla jokingly revealed would become Frank’s room because “Mick sleeps with me”).
When we finally returned to the kitchen, Roy tried to wrap things up. ”It’s really big, Milly. Congratulations."
“Aww, thank you!” she said, tilting her head. “We just wanted something spacious for Mick to grow up in. Hopefully, next time you come over, everything will be finished.”
Cheryl turned to me with a curious expression. ”So… Do you guys have houses like this in Europe?" She seemed genuinely curious but also fishing for some validation.
I smiled politely. “Well… not really like this. But I can see how this house reflects Camilla’s style and personality. It’s definitely a space designed for gathering and making memories, which is really beautiful.”
All three women smiled proudly.
Roy seized the moment. ”Alright… steak dinner at The White Deer, anyone?"
Crystel shook her head. ”We’ll pass. Dad’s already started prepping for tomorrow."
Camilla hesitated. ”I’d love to, but Mick goes to bed early…" She glanced at Cheryl.
“I’m in,” Cheryl said. “I just hope the aunties behave.” She turned to me and whispered, ”They’re nuts. You’ll see."
And just like that—I had my first glimpse into the dysfunctional heart of this family. And I could already tell—it was only going to get messier from here.
I went upstairs to change my outfit back into something more appropriate for a dinner out, and I heard my phone buzzing on the dresser. Looking at the display, I could see that Fabrizio was calling me, probably to have my detailed report on how the encounter was going. “Hi my lovely bijoux… I was looking forward to see your name popping on the display”
“Oh, darling, please. The privilege is all yours. Now, tell me everything. Are you still alive? Did they sacrifice you at the altar of Midwestern mediocrity yet?”
“Barely breathing, but still standing. The initiation ceremony involved an afternoon tea—but without the tea. Just gossip, subtle power plays, and a house tour that made me question the laws of taste.”
“Ohhh, how deliciously tragic. I assume the Queen Mother presided over the event with her signature passive-aggressive benevolence?”
“Of course. She paraded me through the royal halls of her daughter’s new white-and-grey kingdom, complete with a kitchen island so big it has its own gravitational pull.”
“A white and grey farmhouse kitchen? Was it designed by a minimalist or a ghost? Or is it just an ode to an influencer’s Pinterest board from 2016?”
“Oh, it was very HGTV. So white, Fabrizio, so bright—I needed sunglasses”
"I reckon! But tell me, aside from the 50 Shades of Vanilla, how was the royal court? Did they welcome you with open arms or was it more of a Game of Thrones situation?”
“Let’s just say the Queen Mother smiled at me the way one admires a purse they’re not sure is fake or not. The sisters? One is a control freak with a mansion complex, the other is menopausal with a vendetta. So… a warm welcome.”
"Cara mia, let’s be honest, I wouldn’t expect less. And Roy? Still breathing? Or has he been absorbed back into the family hive mind?”
“Oh, he’s fine. He’s looking forward to our dinner at the family steakhouse, where I am apparently about to meet The Aunties. According to the sister-in-law, they’re deranged but will treat Roy like the Second Coming.”
“Oh, darling, this is thrilling. Dysfunctional and entertaining? I love a show. Just remember, smile, nod, and if necessary, fake a sudden European allergy to bad manners. Now, tell me, how are you holding up, tesoro mio?”
“Honestly? A cocktail would help”
“I say go for the cocktail. Now go, conquer dinner, and call me with the post-mortem. I need all the details, especially about these Aunties—I already feel like they deserve their own Netflix special.”
“You’ll be the first to know. If I survive.”
“That’s my girl! Go forth and cause just the right amount of trouble.”
The White Deer is the kind of place that feels frozen in time—somewhere between a Prohibition-era speakeasy and a roadside supper club that’s seen one too many bad omens. The dim lighting casts long, flickering shadows across the mahogany-paneled walls, which are adorned with faded sepia photographs of hunters posing with their prized bucks, their eyes eerily following you wherever you go. A few taxidermy deer heads loom above the booths, their glassy stares and dust-covered antlers giving the unsettling impression that they know something you don’t.
The leather booths are cracked but well-worn, as if generations of patrons have sunk into them, murmuring secrets over whiskey and overcooked steak. A neon beer sign buzzes in the corner, flickering sporadically like it’s trying to send out a distress signal. The bar, a long slab of dark-stained oak, looks like it’s been there since the days of bootleggers—lined with mismatched glassware, half of which probably predate the Eisenhower administration.
The air is thick with the scent of grilled meat, whiskey, and something vaguely metallic—like old pennies or forgotten memories. The waitstaff move in slow, deliberate motions, their faces unreadable, as if they’ve seen things they’d rather not speak of. The jukebox in the corner hums out an old Patsy Cline tune, warped and haunting, as if the record’s been playing for decades without ever being changed.
I felt like I had entered a time portal—straight into the 1940s. The creaky wooden door, which probably hadn’t seen a drop of oil since Eisenhower was in office, groaned under its own weight as we walked in. The place had an undeniable Prohibition-era charm, with dim lighting, heavy oak furniture, and walls adorned with deer heads that looked far too judgmental for my liking. Despite the eerie David Lynch undertones—the kind that made me question whether I’d end up trapped in a surreal nightmare—the restaurant still held onto an air of faded elegance. Maybe it was the lingering spirit of Roy’s grandmother, who once ran this place with military precision, or maybe it was just the whiskey fumes.
At the register counter stood a tall, brown-haired woman, probably in her early seventies. Her once-striking features were now sharpened by years of scowling, and her posture exuded the unmistakable energy of someone who had been fed up with humanity since the Nixon administration.
“That’s Athena,” Roy whispered to me. “If there were an award for Worst Customer Service Ever, she would have won it every year, probably by unanimous vote.”
Athena was currently engaged in a heated exchange with a poor, unsuspecting diner. A middle-aged man, flustered and sweating slightly, was fumbling through his wallet while Athena glared at him as if he had personally insulted her ancestors.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but none of these cards are working?” he said nervously, holding up his American Express. “Maybe try this one?”
Athena snatched the card, glanced at it, and immediately thrust it back at him as if it were contaminated. “American Express?” she scoffed. “We don’t take Amex.”
“Oh… okay, how about this one?” He handed her a Visa rewards card.
She squinted at it, unimpressed. “No rewards cards.”
“Uh… debit?” He produced another card with the desperation of a drowning man grasping at a life raft.
“No debit.”
The man’s face contorted in confusion. “You only take… cash?”
Athena placed her hands on her hips and let out a deep, exhausted sigh as if she had spent her entire life explaining something that should be so obvious. “Yes. Cash. The way it was meant to be. Before all this”—she waved vaguely at the air—“technology nonsense ruined everything.”
“Right, uh… well, I don’t have any cash on me. But there’s an ATM down the street. I can run and—”
Athena cut him off with a sharp tsk and narrowed her eyes. “And what? You think I just let people leave without paying?” She leaned in, dropping her voice into an ominous whisper. “Do I look stupid?”
Roy leaned in and whispered to me, “Here it comes.”
Sure enough, Athena straightened up and loudly declared, “I should call the police!”
The poor man’s eyes widened in sheer panic. “Wait, what?! I’m offering to get the cash!”
Athena huffed. “That’s what they all say.” She turned to another employee, an equally exhausted-looking waitress. “Dina, call Officer Ray.”
Roy nudged me. “Officer Ray is her cousin. He’ll show up just to get a free steak.”
At this point, the man was close to a full-on meltdown, but just before Athena could grab the ancient landline phone off the wall, his wife swooped in like a well-seasoned crisis manager.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Joe,” she snapped, pulling a wad of bills from her purse. “Here, take this. Cash, as the lady demands.”
Athena snatched the money, quickly counting it with the speed and scrutiny of a seasoned casino dealer.
The wife sighed. “That’s all I have in my wallet.”
Athena’s lip curled slightly. She recounted the money. Then again. Then she let out an audible huff and muttered, just loud enough for everyone to hear, “Hmph. No tip.”
Roy and I stood there, flabbergasted but undeniably entertained.
As the man and his wife stormed out, Athena shoved the bills into the register with a final glare in their direction. “You see this?” she grumbled to no one in particular. “This is why we should go back to the old ways.”
Roy exhaled dramatically. “And this is why no one under the age of seventy eats here anymore.”
Athena shot him a glare. “You shut up, golden boy.”
Roy smirked and whispered to me, “If I weren’t her nephew, she’d have called the cops on me years ago.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. Dinner at The White Deer was already proving to be far more entertaining than I had expected.
Roy cleared his throat, bracing himself as he led me toward the counter where Athena stood like a gatekeeper to another realm—a realm where customer service was considered an optional courtesy and where people still debated whether credit cards were a fad. She eyed me with the sharp precision of a metal detector at airport security, starting from my hair, scanning down to my shoes, and then back up as if she were tallying up my worth in her head.
Roy sighed, clearly used to this treatment. “This is Gaia, my girlfriend. She’s Italian, Athena. I picked a European one. I bet Iaia would have been happy.”
Athena pursed her lips and exhaled through her nose, unimpressed. “Hmph. We’ll see.”
Before I could even process that response, a small yet formidable figure burst out of the kitchen, limping but pushing a service cart with the force of a linebacker.
“Roy! Is that you?!”
Roy turned just in time to catch the oncoming force that was Aunt Dina. She was tiny, barely reaching my shoulders, but her presence filled the entire room. Despite the pronounced limp—an unfortunate result of an accident in her youth—she moved with purpose, her strong Greek features lighting up with familiarity.
“Yes, Dina, it’s me,” Roy said, chuckling as she grabbed his face with both hands, patting his cheeks like she was checking for authenticity.
“Look at you, agapi mou! And this beard! You look so handsome.”
As if on cue, another voice erupted from the kitchen.
“Oh my God, Roy!”
I barely had time to register the whirlwind that was Aunt Penelope before she came charging through the doors, arms dramatically thrown in the air, her voice echoing across the dining room.
“Look at you! You’re so handsome with that beard! I barely recognized you! Who’s this lady? Is she your girlfriend?!” She gasped theatrically, clutching her chest as if she were on the verge of fainting. “Oh my God, I am so happy for you! She looks gorgeous! Finally some good news in this family!”
Roy groaned. “Penelope, relax. She’s my—”
But before he could finish, Penelope had already grabbed both of my hands, squeezing them with an alarming amount of strength.
“You are stunning, my dear! Italian!” She turned to Athena, triumphantly. “See?! European! Good taste!”
Athena rolled her eyes but said nothing, likely because she agreed.
I opened my mouth to respond, but before I could get a word out, Roy leaned in and whispered in my ear, “They used to be fun, getting drunk at the bar after closing. Now they’re all jacked up on Adderall, hydrocodone, and God knows what else.”
I glanced at them—the intense energy, the erratic movements, the wide eyes—and it all made sense. Athena, the ice-cold matriarch. Dina, the tough but warm-hearted workhorse. Penelope, the chaotic, dramatic force of nature. The three of them together were like a Greek chorus of barely controlled insanity.
And I had just walked into their world.
