The Wolf's Confession

The dining room gleamed under the crystal chandelier, a space reserved only for occasions that mattered. Sunday dinner was sacred. The mahogany table, polished to a mirror shine, was laid with white porcelain plates rimmed in delicate blue — a pattern passed down from his grandmother in Shanghai. Jade chopsticks rested beside each plate. On the sideboard, a scroll hung with characters his mother had explained years ago: discipline, harmony, excellence. The roasted chicken sat centre stage on a blue and white serving dish, flanked by jasmine rice in a matching bowl and his mother’s signature stir-fry of bitter melon and ginger the kind that took three hours to perfect but was presented as effortless. Everything perfect. Everything controlled.

“So, how were your final exams?” His father folded his napkin with precision, the question landing like it always did casual on the surface, weighted underneath. His father’s suit jacket hung on the chair behind him, tie loosened but still immaculate. Even at home, he maintained a certain formality.

“All A’s,” Marcus said. He’d rehearsed this moment yesterday, predicting which conversation would surface. His fingers found the chopsticks naturally years of practice meant he didn’t have to think about it.

His older brother smiled that particular smile that meant well done, but expected before returning to his food. His mother nodded approvingly, already moving past it. For them, excellence was the baseline, not an achievement.

“Cambridge is impressed,” his father continued. “They’re reviewing applications now. You should prepare for the interview.”

Marcus nodded, cutting his chicken into precise pieces. Across the table, his mother watched him in that way she did — not unkindly, but observant. She’d taught teenagers long enough to recognise when someone was performing rather than present.

“Jamie called earlier,” she offered, changing the subject slightly. “He’s coming by tomorrow?”

“Yeah. We’re heading to the university orientation thing. Sophie’s meeting us there.”

His father made a non-committal sound the kind that suggested parties were frivolous but tolerable if they served networking purposes. Marcus had learned to translate his father’s silences years ago.

After dinner, Marcus excused himself and retreated to his room. His phone buzzed with messages from Sophie:don’t you dare bail on us tomorrow. You need to actually have a social life instead of being a robot.

He smiled despite himself. Sophie had a way of saying things that made him feel simultaneously called out and understood. Jamie’s message was simpler:party tomorrow mate. you’re coming. no excuses.

That night, Marcus lay in bed scrolling through his phone, his mind already running through tomorrow’s scenarios. He’d go to the party, stay for an acceptable amount of time, engage in surface-level conversation, then leave. Simple. Controlled.