Dispatches of a Wolf Witch at the Family Table

There are places on this earth where time stands still, and not in the poetic, “let’s linger in the moment” way. No, I’m talking about the medieval pockets that persist in modernity—where the men still roar, the women still simmer, and the family table is less a place of nourishment than a stage for ancient rituals. Welcome to the Kingdom of Fire. Population: too many lions, not enough witches.

As a self-respecting wolf witch (with a dash of cat for good measure), I attend these gatherings the way an anthropologist might enter a remote village: notebook in hand, eyebrow arched, ready to document the curious customs of the natives.

The Table of Masks:

Here, the patriarch presides with the solemnity of a king who’s never washed a dish. The matriarch—let’s call her the Cheshire Cat—smiles with all the warmth of a riddle you’re doomed to get wrong. The food is abundant, the wine flows, and the conversation is a masterclass in saying nothing while implying everything.

I, of course, am the anomaly. I arrive not as supplicant but as specimen and sometimes, if I’m feeling generous, as the court jester. My presence is tolerated, perhaps even respected, but never fully embraced. After all, I left the prince, I speak in tongues (mostly sarcasm), and I refuse to kneel unless I’m checking for firewood.

The Language of Medieval-earth:

The family speaks a dialect best described as “medieval machismo with a side of passive aggression.” Compliments are rare, directness is a crime, and the only acceptable currency is sacrifice—preferably yours. When I attempt to introduce modern concepts like boundaries or emotional honesty, I’m met with the same look one reserves for a cat dragging in a half-dead mouse: fascinating, but please, not on the rug.

The Ritual of Survival:

Here’s the secret: I survive by becoming a lion when challenged, a wolf when cornered, and a cat when I need to disappear. I eat little, drink less, and digest nothing but the absurdity of it all. The matriarch’s smile is a weapon, the patriarch’s respect is a grudging nod to my refusal to be broken, and my daughter’s loyalty is the only inheritance worth having.

Afterwards, I retreat to my lair, light a candle to the goddess of indigestion, and remind myself: I am not here to be consumed. I am here to observe, endure, and (when the mood strikes) to set the whole script ablaze.

May Harmony find you,

Irena Phaedra

Field Note:

In the Kingdom of Fire, survival is an art form. Some kneel, some roar, some vanish. Me? I take notes, sharpen my claws, and wait for the next invitation—because every anthropologist knows the best stories come from the strangest tribes.

So, dear reader, next time you find yourself at a table of masks, remember: you are not required to eat the feast of expectations. Sometimes, the most subversive thing you can do is simply take notes—and pass the salt with a smile that says, “I know exactly what you’re up to.”