Dad's Wine Cleared My Shallow Fate

In Vinewood, a child of the land is born when the wine is brewed and married when the jar is opened.

With the wedding almost here, I went to dig up the wine under the sweet-olive tree, and found it already gone.

I hurried home, only to walk in on my fianc handing the aged bridal wine to my stepsister.

"Your mom says you're going to livestream a heritage wedding ceremony. On the wedding day, you'll ride in the bridal sedan holding the aged bridal wine, streaming the whole thing."

Seeing me come in, my brother frowned, grave.

"The tourism board asked your sister to livestream a re-creation of a heritage wedding ceremony. Your wine can be the prop that goes on TV. Don't make a scene."

My mother, too, was glowing with borrowed pride.

"Tessa Whitfield, this is a big deal for Beryl Pruitt. I've decided to move your whole wedding schedule onto her."

"As long as you're the one who signs the marriage papers at the end. You don't mind, do you."

I didn't answer. I turned to look at my fianc.

"Do you think I shouldn't mind either?"

Ervin Dickerson blanked for a moment, then settled back into calm.

"Tessa, you've always been sensible."

"This is Beryl's big day. You should be understanding about it."

I nodded, my face untroubled.

"You're right. Her business is what matters."

And mine doesn't.

I should have seen it clearly by now. And I should leave.

...

"This wine really smells good, Mom. Can I open it and have a taste?"

"Just a little bit."

The coy voice drifted over, and my mother's answer was thick with indulgence: "Taste it if you want. It's nothing special anyway."

In my memory, the small me watched my father brew wine for another family's newborn and wanted, curious, to have a sip.

My mother would always scoop me up at once, her voice doting and helpless.

"The first mouthful of aged bridal wine can only go to that family's child. It's the blessing her father gives her for a beautiful life."

"For anyone else to take the first taste is stealing that child's blessing. That's bad manners."

But now, my blessing was the one my mother had given away.

My brother poured her a small cup, and Beryl downed it in one go. The next second her face twisted from the burn.

Her little hand fanned like a paper fan, waving air over her own tongue.

"So hot, so hot, my tongue hurts and it's all this awful wine's fault."

Beryl, unhappy, never held it in.

She knocked my brother's hand aside and smashed the wine on the floor.

"What is this garbage"

It was as if the wine and the shards burst apart in the same instant.

I stumbled forward two steps, my heart like it was being cut away piece by piece.

I crouched down, wanting to gather up the fragments that still held a little wine.

The next second my hand was pinned under her foot.

"Picking up every piece of trash. Can't you see I got burned?"

Pain shot straight through the back of my hand. Cold sweat broke out, and I gritted my teeth and pulled it free. Beryl, not expecting it, took a step back.

Then she burst into sobs. "Mom, brother, she's bullying me."

"In my sister's eyes I'm not even worth as much as some awful wine."

One cry, and my brother's and mother's eyes changed.

Turned on me in blame.

In reproach.

In disgust.

"Can't you ever give your sister a little slack?"

"A jar of bad wine, so it broke, it broke. That move of yours, what if you'd hurt your sister?"

My mother shoved me backhanded, and I fell onto the shards of the wine jar.

The puncture in my hand drove deeper, and more shards of porcelain bit in.

Blood mixed with wine, and the cut burned as if it were being seared.

My body hurt so much that the ache inside almost seemed to ease.

After my father died and my mother remarried, from day one she told me I had to give way to the sister in the new family.

To treat everything about my sister as if it were the most important thing in the world.

When my sister got sick from the cold, my mother would drive me out into the yard and pour bucket after bucket of ice over me.

Dressed up as:

"Your sister isn't well. If nothing's wrong with you at all, it'll upset her to see it."

When I ran a high fever, I wasn't even given medicine.

"You're too strong, medicine works fast on you. Your sister would be unhappy to see that."

When my sister fell and scraped her knee and cried a couple of times, my brother dragged me straight to a little dirt slope and shoved me hard down it.

My hand fractured, and I was scraped raw all over.

And he said:

"Get hurt worse. Your sister will be happier seeing someone as hurt as she is."

They wanted my sister happy, and it didn't matter whether I lived or died.

Ervin helped me up, something like pity in his eyes too.

"Your sister's just a kid at heart. Don't take it to heart."

"Go clean up your wound first. Your sister and I still have to run through it at the guesthouse. The ceremony's tomorrow."

With that, he let go and chased off after Beryl.

I took out my phone and messaged my best friend:

"Weren't you short a winemaker for the island?"

"I'll come."

That afternoon the whole group went straight into a livestream, recording the entire thing.

The tourism board was drawing in viewers first.

The Legendary Vinewood Heritage Wedding, in One Continuous Shot

The doctor worked on my wound while the wall screen ran the livestream in real time.

Beryl had dropped all her usual arrogance, greeting the camera with warmth.

Next, we're going to show you the most authentic Vinewood wedding.

The stylists wheeled out the gown, and Beryl introduced it with a smile.

A Vinewood heritage wedding is all about the details, especially the dress.

The bridal gown isn't rented. You have to find a seamstress and have it custom-made half a year in advance.

It has to follow the bride's figure exactly. Not a single loose line anywhere.

The gown Ervin had me pick a design for half a year ago, but no one ever took my measurements.

I'd asked him about it. If they don't measure me, what happens if it doesn't fit?

He'd said:

The ones I found are all old-school tailors. One look and they know exactly what size suits you.

But now I saw it. It wasn't that the tailors didn't measure. They'd measured someone else all along.

The staff led the bridesmaids inside to go over the sequence, then noticed something was off.

There should be an even number. How is one missing?

One of the bridesmaids quickly explained: One of our bridesmaids had a stomachache and went to the hospital.

Beryl's face soured again. She looked ready to snap at someone, but with the camera on her she just glanced toward Mom.

Less than two minutes later, my phone rang. It was Mom.

On the wedding day, you'll wear the bridesmaid dress and walk through it with your sister.

And when the last part of the ceremony is done, you'll hand over the winemaking recipe your father left you. As a gift for your sister.

I thought I'd misheard.

In Vinewood, every household had its own winemaking recipe.

The recipe was your lifeblood.

I'd loved making wine since I was small, so Dad gave his recipe to me.

He wanted me to make more wine that people would love.

My brother's voice cut in:

It's just a recipe. Don't be so petty.

All these years you've eaten off the Pruitts, lived off the Pruitts. Now they're not even asking for a bride price, and you should count yourself lucky.

The doctor started the stitches. My hand jerked once, but I swallowed the pain fast.

You say I ate off the Pruitts and lived off the Pruitts. Want me to run you the numbers?

Dad died when I was in middle school. From the summer of that first year, Mom shipped me off to work summer jobs. She called it easing the burden of raising a Pruitt child.

Living in this house, you charged me for everything, room and board both. A thousand a month for the room, ten for breakfast, thirty for dinner.

I paid it for ten years. The cleaning, the laundry, the cooking, I did all that on top of it

Back then I didn't dare get sick, because Mom said medicine was expensive, and if she had to sit with me, it was a hundred an hour.

Parent-teacher conferences were billed separately.

Because once Mom got married, she wasn't only my mother anymore.

But the rules Mom set never applied to Beryl or to my brother.

They ate, slept, and got sick without paying a cent, and Mom had endless time to spend on them.

I was the natural accident, it seemed.

Mom, I don't owe you people anything.

And my dad owed you even less.

I won't give up the recipe, and I won't be a bridesmaid.

My words set Mom off.

Her roar came down the line.

You do owe me. From the moment I gave birth to you instead of leaving you out on the street, you've owed me.

Fine, don't give me the recipe. Then forget your wedding jewelry, and forget your wedding while you're at it.

I'd never wanted any of it to begin with.

A threat like that meant nothing.

Do whatever you want.

Not long after, a few photos popped up in the family group chat we all shared.

Photos of Beryl wearing the gold jewelry.

Mom was underneath, laying on the praise.

Beryl wears these so much better than a certain someone.

Beryl's so pretty.

Ervin added his own compliment too:

Beautiful.

Looking at that one word, my heart ached a little.

The doctor snipped the thread short and sighed:

Some feelings, when it's time to cut them off, you cut them off.

Thank you, Doctor.

Leaving the hospital, my best friend texted to say she was coming to pick me up.

I'd just reached the entrance to wait when a few thugs blocked my way, comparing me against a photo.

That's her, no mistake.

Ervin says she made his sister mad. Told us to teach her a lesson.

I was about to call for help when a hand cracked hard across my face.

They spoke first.

Bitch. Stole from my buddy's sister and still won't give it back.

We'll make you sorry.