Ethan had learned two things about Saturdays:
If you woke up before 7 a.m., life was already punishing you.
If your mom was humming while reorganizing the spice rack, something terrible was about to happen.
This time, it was both.
He'd barely made it downstairs when Claire spun around like a game show host revealing a prize.
"Guess what, Ethan? We're having brunch with the whole family at Grandpa Jay's today!"
Ethan blinked. "Did... did I win something?"
Phil popped in from the hallway, holding a pineapple-print button-down. "You did win! The prize is quality time with the people who love you most. And also Gloria's tamales. So—yes."
Ethan sighed, dragging a hand down his face. Somewhere between "forced bonding" and "mouth-melting salsa," he'd find the will to survive.
"Yay. I am so excited. I just can't hide," Ethan sang flatly, irony fully engaged.
And so, the chaos began.
The pattern never changed:
1. Claire yelled a name.
2. Haley claimed the bathroom.
3. Luke lost a shoe.
4. Dad sang something off-key.
5. Ethan tried to disappear.
6. Claire yelled again—same name, louder.
The Dunphy pre-dinner routine was like a time bomb made of hairspray, kitchen towels, and unresolved sibling tension. Every weekend, Ethan observed it like a scientist too scared to interfere with the specimen.
Same recipe. Slightly different ingredients. Mildly terrifying results.
He was just about to sneak back upstairs to retreat to the one thing that made sense—his piano—when a voice caught him mid-escape.
"Where are you going, young man? If they're getting ready, you can set the napkins," Claire said, pointing at the drawer.
He nodded. He folded. He fantasized about being adopted by a quieter family—maybe one that communicated solely via Post-it notes.
Eventually, once everyone was perfectly late, the Dunphy minivan lurched to life.
Phil tried to lift the mood. "If you could only eat one food for the rest of your life, what would it be? And no saying pancakes, Ethan. That's cheating."
Technically, Ethan thought, if you adjusted the batter ratios, pancakes could cover all the food groups... but I'm not walking into that trap.
Claire chimed in next. "Did everyone remember to bring something? Haley, dessert? Luke, did you brush your hair? Ethan… please tell me you didn't bring sheet music to dinner again."
"I didn't. Just a few melody sketches. In case there's... downtime."
"There's never downtime. Not with this family," Claire said, already predicting the future.
A few minutes later, Phil added with great enthusiasm, "Okay, heads-up—I may have told Jay I'm bringing my world-famous potato salad."
Claire shot him a look. "Phil. You didn't make potato salad."
"But I bought it! And added paprika. That counts!"
Phil Dunphy's rule of cooking: If you breathe near it, you made it.
The Dunphy van rolled into the Pritchett driveway with a soft crunch of gravel. Ethan, sitting in the backseat, stared out at the familiar house he hadn't visited in a while. From this angle, it looked almost symmetrical—which calmed him. But the buzz of voices inside? Not so much.
Phil parked slightly crooked. "Alright, Team Dunphy," he said, twisting in his seat. "Let's be charming, be grateful, and let's not talk politics with Jay. That one's mostly for me."
Claire smirked. "Or parenting with Gloria."
The front door opened to a smell equal parts wood polish, cilantro, and Jay's cologne—a strangely comforting combo.
Jay stood in the living room, arms crossed like he'd been waiting since sunrise. "Glad you made it," he said gruffly, nodding to Claire and shaking Phil's hand like it might be contagious.
"Hey, Jay! Lookin' sharp. Did you cut your hair, or just scare it into shape again?" Phil grinned.
Jay raised an eyebrow. "Still doing the jokes, huh?"
Claire kissed her dad on the cheek. "Ignore him. He's just excited to eat something that wasn't microwaved."
"Hi Grandpa," Ethan offered quietly. Jay gave him a surprisingly warm pat on the back.
"Hey, kid. Heard you started high school. Let me know if anyone gives you trouble."
From the hallway, Mitchell appeared, holding a tray of vegetables. "Oh great, now he's got a bodyguard," he said dryly. "Is it too early for wine?"
"Mitchell! I was wondering where the sarcasm was hiding," Claire said, giving him a side hug.
Haley and Luke bolted past him—Haley toward the mirror, Luke toward the food. Gloria tried to wrangle them like hyper chihuahuas.
"¡No, no, no! You wait until dinner! You eat one, you eat six, and then I get blamed for no leftovers!"
Ethan lingered near the staircase, quietly watching the chaos unfold like a museum exhibit titled The American Family: Loud but Loving.
Mitchell drifted over and leaned beside him. "Rough morning already?"
"I tried to compose something earlier, but... this," Ethan gestured at the moving circus around them, "happened."
Mitchell nodded. "You'll get used to it. Or turn it into something brilliant and win an award. That's what I did with my childhood trauma."
Ethan smirked—barely, but it counted.
Jay walked past, squinting at Mitchell's tray. "What is that? Rabbit food?"
"It's crudités. Vegetables. For humans."
"You didn't grow up on vegetables. You grew up on steak and sarcasm."
"I grew up needing therapy," Mitchell muttered under his breath.
"Dinner is ready in ten minute!" Gloria called out cheerfully.
Ethan looked around the noisy house. Somehow, even as it overwhelmed him, it felt... warm.
"Guess we're doing this," he mumbled.
Jay clapped a hand on his shoulder. "It's never just dinner with this family. You'll see."
And Ethan did see. Every second of it.
The dining table looked like a battleground. Mashed potatoes everywhere. Manny—already dressed like a retired professor—monologued about some Colombian poet no one asked for. Gloria kept piling food on Ethan's plate like she was worried his bones might shatter.
"Eat! You're like a stick. You have to put some meat on those piano fingers!"
"Thanks, Mrs. Delgado—uh, Gloria," Ethan said, nudging a second helping of rice into equilibrium with the rest of the plate.
By dessert, Ethan started to notice something:
Jay started every story with "You know what your problem is?"
Gloria laughed like punctuation—loud, genuine, and usually followed by passing a serving dish.
Claire and Mitchell turned every memory into a competition.
And Phil? Phil just kept making finger guns at Jay.
"We're like a jazz band," Ethan thought. "Everyone doing their own thing, but somehow it works. Kind of."
Later, Ethan sat on Jay's back patio. The last echoes of laughter drifted through the screen door.
He opened his sketchbook—not to draw, but to write.
The rhythm of dinner. The tempo of family.
It wasn't quiet. But it wasn't noise.
It was music.
At the top of the page, he scribbled:
"Family Fugue in Loud Major."