"Publicly humiliate. The only reason this black [ __ ] is at our table is cuz my brother's got a fetish."
Brett said it loud. Fork down. Grin wide. The whole reunion heard it.
Faith's jaw locked. "Todd, did you hear what your brother just said?" Todd didn't look up. "Just let it go, Faith. Let it go." "Let it go? He just called me a fetish in front of your whole family." "I said drop it." "No. Nine years your family treated me like dirt. I'm done being quiet."
Todd stood up. His hand cracked across her face. The sound split the yard like a gunshot. 60 guests, not one mouth opened. Brett laughed. "Guess the dog needed training after all."
But what none of them knew was this: In less than 3 hours, Faith's face would appear on national television. And every single person at that table would choke on their silence.
Let me take you back to the beginning. Because how Faith got to that table, that's the real story. Now, let me take you back. Before the slap. Before the blood rushed to Faith's cheek. Before 60 forks stopped moving. Let me tell you how Faith Underwood ended up at that table in the first place.
The Anderson estate sat on 40 acres of Virginia countryside. White fences, oak trees lining a gravel driveway so long you could lose cell signal halfway through. A colonial farmhouse passed down three generations, built on old money and older pride. Every 4th of July, the Andersons threw their reunion. Tents, buffet tables, a hired barbecue crew smoking ribs since sunrise, a country band on a wooden stage, American flags hanging from every post. Picture perfect, postcard ready.
About 80 guests showed up that year. Neighbors, old friends, a couple local politicians shaking hands. Almost every face was white. Almost every handshake came with a last name that had been in that county for a hundred years. And then, there was Faith.
Faith Underwood. Black woman, early 40s, wore a linen sundress and small gold earrings, carried a peach cobbler she baked at 5:00 that morning—her mama Naomi's recipe. The same cobbler she brought every single year for nine years straight. Nine years. That's how long she'd been married to Todd Anderson.
See, here's what you need to understand about Todd. When he met Faith, he was 29, working a dead-end desk job at a small bank in Richmond. No direction, no ambition. Faith was already a rising reporter at a local news station. Sharp, beautiful, driven. Todd was fascinated by her. But Todd didn't fall in love with Faith. He fell in love with what she gave him. Attention, status, a woman who made him look interesting at parties, a woman whose success reflected on him.
His family hated it from day one. Eleanor Anderson, Todd's mother, sat him down the week he proposed. She didn't yell, she didn't cry, she just said, cold and flat, "You can date whoever you want, but an Anderson does not marry a black woman. That is not what this family is."
Todd married Faith anyway, but not because he was brave, because he was stubborn. He wanted to prove his mother wrong, not about racism, but about control. He didn't defend Faith. He used her. And every year that passed, Todd changed. Or maybe he just stopped pretending.
The more Faith's career grew, the smaller Todd felt. She got promoted, he got bitter. She got invited to anchor a weekend segment, he got drunk and told her she was getting too full of herself. She won a regional journalism award. He didn't come to the ceremony. Todd started echoing his family's language. Not the slurs, not yet, but the tone, the little digs.
"You're so loud sometimes. Why do you always have to be the center of attention? My mother says you make people uncomfortable."
Faith heard what those words really meant. She always did. But she stayed because she loved the man she married, not the man he was becoming.
That morning, the morning of the reunion, Faith stood in the bathroom mirror at 6:00 a.m. pressing her dress. Todd walked past without saying good morning. She asked if he wanted coffee. He said, "We're already late because of you." They drove 40 minutes in silence. The smell of peach cobbler filled the car. Todd cracked his window like the scent bothered him.
When they pulled up the gravel driveway, Faith saw the tents, the flags, the crowd. She took a breath, told herself what she told herself every year. Smile. Be gracious. Leave early. She stepped out of the car carrying the cobbler with both hands. Todd was already 10 steps ahead walking toward his brothers. Didn't hold the door. Didn't take the dish. Didn't look back.
Faith's mother Naomi arrived 20 minutes later in her old sedan. She wasn't invited by the Andersons. Faith had asked her to come. Naomi stepped out wearing a floral blouse and flat shoes. She scanned the yard, the white faces, the stiff smiles, the way people's eyes slid past her daughter like she was furniture.