Chicken Fried Steak Shouldn’t Come With a Side of Emotional Collapse

Not every red flag comes wrapped in drama. Some come smothered in gravy.

Excerpt from my memoir:

Like the chicken fried steak incident— a moment so ridiculous it became family lore.

We were in Las Vegas with my parents, my sister, my aunt and uncle, Jessica and her husband — a big group trip. We went out to eat at a restaurant, and Timothy ordered the chicken fried steak. You know, the classic Southern diner dish that always comes smothered in gravy.

Except he didn’t want gravy. He hated gravy. And he didn’t say anything when he ordered it.

When it came out, as described, exactly as any reasonable person would expect,  he threw a full-blown tantrum. Not loud or explosive, but icy and dramatic. He pushed the plate away. Scowled. Made comments under his breath. Refused to eat. Refused to order anything else. And was especially pissed when he discovered there was gravy underneath the steak too, as if the kitchen had personally wronged him.

He insisted the menu didn’t say anything about gravy, but come on! That’s like ordering a cheeseburger and being shocked it came with cheese.

Everyone at the table felt the shift. Conversation slowed. Awkward glances were exchanged. Nobody said anything, but nobody forgot it either.

I remember sitting there, feeling like I was trying to psychically mop up the mess. I felt responsible. Embarrassed. Like I needed to smooth it over, even though I hadn’t done anything wrong. That was the pattern: he’d react, and I’d absorb.

Looking back, it wasn’t about gravy. It never is. It was about control. About needing the world to bend to his expectations — and punishing everyone around him when it didn’t.

In that moment, I thought I was just embarrassed. Later I realized I was being trained — to carry the shame for both of us.

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This wasn’t the breaking point. That would take years of heavier patterns and betrayals to finally unravel. But moments like this — the icy tantrums, the silent punishment, the way I carried the shame — were part of the slow drip that eroded me over time.

Writing about it now, I can see it for what it was: not gravy, but control. And that’s exactly why stories like this one made it into Million Dollar Nightmare, my forthcoming memoir. I’ll be sharing more excerpts and reflections here on the blog as I get closer to publication.