BACK TO THE PAST
**Chapter 27: Back to the Past**
Max adjusted the collar of his old suit as he stood outside *Le Fleur Étoilée*, a fancy French restaurant nestled in the heart of the city. It was the kind of place his parents adored—refined, expensive, and exclusive. He had borrowed this suit from Kenji, as his own wardrobe lacked anything remotely suitable for such a setting.
As Max stepped through the grand entrance, a maître d' greeted him with an impeccable smile, his eyes sweeping over Max with a flicker of polite judgment.
"Good evening, sir. Do you have a reservation?"
"Uh, yeah. Maxwell Carter," Max said, his voice catching slightly.
"Ah, yes. Your party has not yet arrived. Please, follow me."
Max was led to a table by the window, the view overlooking the city's twinkling lights. The room smelled of rich sauces and freshly baked bread, the quiet murmur of conversation blending with the soft notes of a live pianist in the corner.
He sat down and glanced at the wine menu, his fingers brushing over the embossed leather cover. His parents had always loved places like this. They'd bring the family to similar restaurants when he was younger, though those outings had always felt more like performances than meals.
As he waited, his mind wandered back to those days.
---
Max had been twelve years old the first time he truly understood what it meant to be a disappointment. The memory came rushing back as he sat at the pristine table.
His older brother, James, had just graduated top of his class from an Ivy League university. The family had thrown a lavish celebration in his honor. Their parents had beamed with pride, their voices filled with admiration as they spoke about James's bright future.
"Maxwell," his mother had said, turning to him with that sharp gaze of hers. "You should learn from your brother. He's focused, disciplined, and ambitious. You'll need those qualities if you want to succeed."
Max had nodded quietly, feeling the weight of her words press down on him. Beside him, James had smirked, his perfect smile infuriatingly smug.
Then there was his sister, Eleanor—brilliant, graceful, and the epitome of their parents' ideal child. Eleanor had won countless awards for her ballet performances and was pursuing a degree in international law. She always seemed untouchable, her achievements casting a shadow so vast that Max could never hope to step out of it.
"Eleanor has such poise," his mother would say. "And she's always so composed. Why can't you be more like her, Maxwell?"
At the time, Max had tried. He had poured himself into his studies, joining clubs, and even attempting piano lessons to appease them. But no matter how hard he tried, it was never enough.
He remembered the day he brought home a painting he had spent weeks working on for an art competition. It had won second place, and he'd been so proud.
When he showed it to his parents, his father had barely glanced at it. "Second place isn't first, Maxwell. If you're going to put in the effort, at least aim to win."
That night, Max had stayed up in his room, staring at the painting and wondering why he wasn't good enough.
---
The clink of glasses nearby pulled Max back to the present. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his fingers brushing over the silverware.
The waiter approached, pouring him a glass of water. "Would you like to order something while you wait, sir?"
"No, thanks. I'm good," Max said, offering a tight smile.
His parents were late, of course. Punctuality was something they expected from others but rarely practiced themselves.
As he sat there, more memories bubbled to the surface.
There was the time he told them he wanted to pursue art as a career. He had been eighteen, fresh out of high school and full of dreams.
"You're wasting your potential," his father had said, his voice cold and dismissive. "Art won't pay the bills, Maxwell. You'll end up a starving artist, begging for scraps."
His mother had been worse. "We didn't raise you to throw your life away on childish fantasies. You're better than this—or at least, you should be."
But the worst moment of all had been the day they kicked him out. He had been twenty-two, struggling to make ends meet as he worked part-time and tried to get his art off the ground. He'd come home one evening, exhausted and defeated, only to find his father waiting for him in the living room.
"This isn't working, Maxwell," his father had said, his tone as final as a judge's gavel. "You're a grown man, and it's time you learned to stand on your own two feet. You can't stay here anymore."
He had packed his things that night, his mother watching silently from the doorway. She hadn't said a word as he left, not even goodbye.
---
Max's grip on the edge of the table tightened as he fought to keep his emotions in check. The waiter returned, this time with a bottle of wine and two glasses.
"Your party requested this be served upon their arrival," the waiter explained, setting the glasses down with precision.
"Thanks," Max muttered, his voice flat.
He stared at the empty chair across from him, his reflection faintly visible in the polished surface of the table.
"I'm not that kid anymore," he whispered to himself. "I'm not a failure."
But deep down, the old wounds still stung.
As he waited, the minutes stretched into what felt like hours. Finally, the doors to the restaurant opened, and his parents walked in.
His mother was impeccably dressed, her pearls gleaming under the soft light. His father wore a tailored suit, his expression as unreadable as ever. They spotted Max and approached the table, their presence commanding attention from nearby diners.
"Maxwell," his mother said, her tone as crisp as ever. "It's been a while."
"Yeah," Max said, forcing a smile. "It has."
They took their seats, the air between them heavy with unspoken tension.
His father picked up the wine bottle, examining it with a critical eye. "At least you managed to pick a decent place for once."
Max bit back a retort, instead pouring himself a glass of water.
"So," his mother began, her gaze sharp. "What exactly have you been doing with your life?"
And just like that, the past and present collided, the weight of their expectations pressing down on Max once again.