I’m married to Nadia, and we have two kids: Caleb, who’s seven, and Lily, who just turned four.
I built Brandt Table Catering from nothing after culinary school. I started in a rented commercial kitchen in Paterson doing office lunches out of a used van. Eleven years later, we have a staff of twelve, our own kitchen in Hawthorne that I lease for $4,200 a month, supplier accounts with three food distributors, and a waiting list for wedding season.
I’m not saying that to brag. I’m saying it because it matters later.
My older brother, Garrett, married Susette about eight years ago. That’s when Christmas changed.
Before Susette, Christmas was at my parents’ split-level in Wayne. Mom overcooked the turkey every year. Dad fell asleep in front of the football game by two in the afternoon. Uncle Pete argued with whoever sat next to him. It was loud and chaotic and completely normal.
Then Garrett and Susette bought a big colonial in Ridgewood: five bedrooms, a formal dining room, a three-car garage. Garrett’s an actuary at an insurance company in Newark and does very well. Susette doesn’t work. She runs the house.
The first summer they lived there, Susette announced that she’d be hosting Christmas from now on.
My mother, Marilyn, was thrilled. She’d cooked Christmas dinner for twenty-some years and was ready to hand off the apron. Dad shrugged. That was that.
The first year was actually nice. Susette went all out: matching china, cloth napkins, a centerpiece that looked like it came out of a magazine. She’s good at that stuff. I’ll give her that.
The table was set for fourteen, and everyone had a place card with their name in calligraphy. The food was decent. Not great. I kept that opinion to myself.
Year two is when it started.
We showed up, and there were only twelve place settings. Nadia and I didn’t have seats.
Susette put her hand over her mouth like she’d just remembered something terrible. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I completely miscounted. Let me grab two more chairs.”
She made a big production of hauling two folding chairs in from the garage and squeezing them in at the corner of the table, practically in the kitchen doorway. No place cards for us. No cloth napkins. Just two paper ones from a pack on the counter.
I told myself it was an honest mistake.
Year three, it was three missing seats: me, Nadia, and Caleb, who was two. Susette put us at a little side table in the living room.
“The dining room just can’t fit everyone anymore,” she said.
It could. I counted the chairs. There were two empty seats at the main table, set for people who didn’t come: my cousin Marcus’s girlfriend, who’d broken up with him in October, and Aunt Viv, who Susette said had other plans.
When I pointed out the empty seats, Susette said she couldn’t rearrange the place cards because the seating chart was already done.
My mom told me to stop making a fuss.
Specialty: Quiet Comebacks & Personal Justice
David Reynolds focuses on stories where underestimated individuals regain control of their lives. His writing centers on measured decisions rather than dramatic outbursts — emphasizing preparation, patience, and the long game. His characters don’t shout; they act.