On the, seemingly, endless drive back in to the city, Stewart did his best to smooth things over with Estelle. As with the rest of the day, that wasn't going well.
“Oh for crying out loud, sweetie, how the heck was I supposed to know your dad belonged to one of those dorky lodge thingies? I mean, seriously, a bunch of full-grown men wearing silly hats and meeting in their clubhouse to exchange secret handshakes and conduct queer little rituals? It’s…ludicrous.”
He knew he’d misspoken when she wouldn’t even look at him. Her tone was low and tinged with barely-controlled fury.
“In time, I’m sure Daddy might forgive you for that…maybe. Surprisingly, that wasn’t really the worst of it. Oh, no! For that, you had to wait until my grandfather made a rare appearance at a family function. I can’t believe you asked him who the ‘hatchet-faced fat broad’ was in my parent’s wedding picture! That was a question absolutely, entirely, completely beyond unforgivable.”
Stewart winced with the memory of the look on the old man’s face as he’d rounded on him and spoken through gritted teeth, “That, young man, would be my dear departed wife Maybelle.”
This story was written for the weekly Thursday Threads flash fiction challenge prompt: "That wasn't really the worst of it."