Prescott didn’t start as a Yankee. He was born in rural Vermont, which in family lore is described as “a place where people stack wood for fun.” When he was fourteen, his mother (my father’s sister) remarried and moved them to Atlanta. To call it a culture shock is like calling a hurricane a stiff breeze.

In most families, there’s a pressure to be "nice" or to "keep the peace." The Yankee-type bitchy cousin has no such internal filter. He views himself as the arbiter of taste in a family he likely considers "endearing but misguided."

Yet, unlike a cartoon villain, he’s not pure antagonism. There are moments when that same sharpness becomes unexpectedly useful—fixing a broken gutter without drama, pointing out a logical flaw in a family plan that would’ve cost everyone time and money, or offering a candid, if blunt, compliment that actually feels earned.

He pulled out a resealable bag containing his own flatware. “I brought my own settings. The weight on yours is off.”

, Leo," he sighed, adjusting his silk pocket square while looking at me like I was a smudge on a window. "Most people just live. I

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