In “Chap­ter Four­teen” of *If These Wings Could Fly*, the scene unfolds in the bustling Auburn Din­er on a Sat­ur­day morn­ing, a place where the aro­ma of pan­cakes fills the air and fam­i­lies gath­er for break­fast. The pro­tag­o­nist reflects on her fam­i­ly lega­cy in Auburn, tied to her grand­fa­ther’s con­struc­tion busi­ness, which built many build­ings in town, includ­ing their own home. This lega­cy, while sub­stan­tial, rais­es ques­tions about the dual­i­ty of peo­ple’s lives—how they present them­selves out­ward­ly com­pared to their inter­nal real­i­ties.

As the fam­i­ly eager­ly awaits their food, the wait­ress Chris­tine greets them warm­ly, reflect­ing a cama­raderie that con­trasts with the fam­i­ly’s under­ly­ing ten­sions. Her invi­ta­tion to join a girls’ night out is met with a quick refusal from the father, Jesse Barnes, who has been increas­ing­ly iso­lat­ing his wife from friends. This dynam­ic high­lights the strain with­in the fam­i­ly, point­ing to a pat­tern of sup­pres­sion and con­trol from Jesse.

The chap­ter intro­duces Offi­cer DiMar­co, a long-lost friend of Jesse, whose vis­it brings a fleet­ing moment of nor­mal­cy. How­ev­er, a sud­den rev­e­la­tion about Jesse’s lost bid for a sig­nif­i­cant library ren­o­va­tion con­tract shifts the atmos­phere. While Jesse attempts to brush off the news with a non­cha­lant atti­tude, the ten­sion between him and the moth­er becomes pal­pa­ble, as his hand on her shoul­der betrays more than a sup­port­ive ges­ture; it shows the strain of con­trol in their rela­tion­ship.

As the chil­dren, includ­ing the nar­ra­tor, observe their par­en­t’s facade of hap­pi­ness, they too fall into the act, nod­ding and smil­ing in response to their father’s remarks. The narrator’s inner tur­moil esca­lates as the meal, once a source of com­fort, turns bit­ter in her mouth. The chap­ter clos­es on a poignant note, as the pro­tag­o­nist, over­whelmed by the night­mar­ish real­i­ty masked by the morn­ing’s false charm, rush­es to the restroom to vomit—not just the break­fast, but the sor­row and fear lurk­ing beneath the sur­face. This stark con­trast between the pub­lic dis­play of nor­mal­cy and the pri­vate agony encap­su­lates the fam­i­ly’s strug­gles and the pro­tag­o­nist’s qui­et rebel­lion against their oppres­sive dynam­ic.