Perfection is an illusion. –Michelle Liew
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Marigold Lane was quiet–peaceful, picturesque. A place where parents wanted their children to take root. Grow up.
Where decent family values were held dear.
The Blackstones —unflappable, champions of the status quo—arrived to complete this idyllic suburban scene. No one knew when they got to Marigold–they simply appeared, as if their house had grown them.
Not a sound came from the house. No creaks, no odd moans. But it was as if it had grown the Blackstones. They didn’t blink as often as the rest of us. Unassuming and polished as they were, they were—too perfect. Too still. Too calm.
A little too stoic—for me.
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Our white-picket-fence neighbors began to engage—but always held enough back. Baked goods, in neat packaging, left quietly on our patio. Greetings, in well-rounded cursive. Prettily wrapped presents on birthdays,never late, never early, always remembered. Family meals, seen through the curtain, played like well-synchronized scenes from Family Ties.
I chalked it up to envy. They had what everyone in the neighbourhood wanted—an idyllic home, that charming white fence, a car.
Money.
But something felt–off. Their children looked the same the next year. And the year after next. Their dog? Too quiet. Mum was too slim. As if she had never seen a plate. Dad always smiled. Always. Never in a foul mood.
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We got THE invite for dinner. And we walked over. Their table was as they were—well-laid. Plates well aligned, forks and spoons sitting like quiet Terra Cotta warriors.
Dinner was a well-played march past, with dad always smiling. He passed the bread around like a conductor disciplining his choir. Every gesture at the table was—terrifyingly synchronized. “Children make mistakes,” Mr. Blackstone said in a melodious tenor. “Mistakes are lessons,”he said, as if reading from a music score.
All of us spoke in well-cadenced, gentle tones,our responses too well-timed. Too precise. Their laughter felt rehearsed, expressions from actors who didn’t sync with scenes.
And then the questions came. Oddly personal queries for a neighborly relationship.
“Do you think family is sacred?”
“Are you comfortable with someone watching you?”
Then, the toast, at just the right moment. “To unity, obedience, and harmony.”
A glass shattered, its tiny fragments showing Mr. Blackstones smiling reflection.
In different places, all over the floor.
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But not for long, courtesy of Mrs. Blackstone’s helper, dressed in neatly pressed servant’s attire. Everyone finished the meal in unsettled silence.
Mrs. Blackstone and her helper strode into the dining room in unison, carrying a cake, already sliced in perfect pieces.
My eyes fell on a photo on the wall. Everyone was there—including myself.
I stared at the dessert plate in front of me. I smiled, like everyone else. Lifted my fork, like everyone else. Chewed on the cake, like Mrs. Blackstone. And smiled, like dad.
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The Getting Literal Writing Alcove 