I carried the suit to the bed and unwrapped it slowly, remembering how proud I’d felt walking into that auditorium, Margaret on my arm, watching Rick cross the stage. The same suit had seen me through job interviews, anniversaries, and Margaret’s funeral. Tonight, it would witness another milestone.
The shower’s hot water loosened muscles I didn’t realize I’d been tensing. As I shaved, I caught my reflection studying me with hopeful eyes. When had I gotten so old? The lines around my eyes had deepened, and silver now dominated my temples. Would Rick notice? Would Emma see how lonely I’d become? Margaret’s cologne sat on the bathroom counter where I’d left it after her passing: Chanel No. 5, her Christmas gift to herself every year. I touched the bottle briefly, then reached for my own aftershave. Some memories were too precious to borrow from.
Dressed and ready, I surveyed my reflection one final time. The suit still fit well, though perhaps a bit looser than before. I selected a bottle of aged whiskey from the cabinet, a peace offering, something to bridge the gap between past hurts and future hopes.
My phone buzzed with Rick’s text: 247 Elmwood Drive, Montclair. Can’t wait to see you, Dad.
I called for an Uber, my fingers hesitating over the keyboard as I typed the address. Montclair was forty minutes away, another world from my modest Brooklyn neighborhood. The app showed a wait time of eight minutes. Standing by my front window, I watched familiar brownstones blur into evening shadows. Mrs. Chen from next door waved from her stoop, and I waved back, feeling lighter than I had in months. Maybe tonight would change everything. Maybe family really could find its way home.
The Uber arrived precisely on time, a clean sedan with a friendly driver who commented on the nice weather as we pulled away from the curb. As Brooklyn gave way to highways and highways gave way to manicured suburbs, I watched the world transform outside my window. Houses grew larger, lawns more pristine, driveways wider. By the time we crossed into New Jersey, I was staring at mansions that could have housed six families like mine.
“Montclair’s a beautiful area,” the driver remarked, noting my wide-eyed observation. “Lot of successful folks out here.”
“I’m visiting my son,” I replied, pride swelling in my chest despite my confusion about how Rick could afford such luxury.
“Lucky man, having family in a place like this.”
Lucky indeed, I thought, though unease crept into my excitement. How exactly had Rick managed to buy a house in one of New Jersey’s most expensive zip codes? The Uber slowed to a stop before a house that belonged in architectural magazines. I sat frozen in the backseat, staring up at stone columns and perfectly manicured topiaries that probably cost more than my monthly rent. A circular driveway curved around an ornate fountain where water danced in the early evening light. Two luxury cars, a Mercedes and a BMW, sat parked like gleaming statements of success.
“This is it, sir,” the driver announced cheerfully. “Beautiful place.”
I fumbled with my wallet, hands trembling slightly as I counted out bills and added a generous tip. “Thank you. Have a good evening.”
The car door felt heavier than it should have as I stepped onto pristine pavement. My shoes, polished but obviously worn, clicked against stone as I walked the curved path toward an entrance that could have belonged to a small hotel. Perfectly trimmed hedges lined the walkway, and motion-sensor lights illuminated my approach with theatrical precision.
Before I could even reach for the brass doorbell, the massive oak door swung open. A middle-aged Hispanic woman with kind eyes and graying hair stood in the doorway, wearing a crisp black dress that screamed professional housekeeper. Her smile seemed genuine, but something flickered behind her eyes—concern? Warning? The expression vanished so quickly I wondered if I’d imagined it.
“Mr. Miller,” she said warmly, stepping aside to usher me into a foyer that made my entire living room look like a closet. “I’m Maria. Mr. Rick and Miss Emma are so excited you’re here.”
The interior took my breath away. Marble floors stretched toward a curved staircase that belonged in movies about rich people. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over oil paintings that looked original and expensive. Fresh flowers—real ones, not the artificial arrangements I favored—filled the air with subtle perfume.
“Dad!” Rick’s voice boomed from somewhere deeper in the house, footsteps echoing as he approached. He appeared in the foyer looking like a magazine model: expensive suit, perfect haircut, teeth that definitely hadn’t been that white at his graduation. When he reached me, his embrace felt desperate, lasting a beat too long. “You look great,” he said, stepping back to study me with eyes that seemed both grateful and anxious. “Really great.”
Emma materialized beside him like a graceful apparition in a silk dress that probably cost more than my car. Her makeup was flawless, her jewelry subtle but clearly expensive. Her smile was so perfect it felt rehearsed. “Jonathan!” She swept forward to kiss my cheek, enveloping me in expensive perfume. “You look wonderful. We’re so happy you’re here.”
I managed a smile, still overwhelmed by the sheer opulence surrounding us. “This place is… incredible. How do you—”
“Real estate,” Rick interrupted quickly, his laugh a little too bright. “Caught the market at exactly the right time. Lucky timing, mostly.”
Something about his tone made me pause, but Emma was already taking my arm with practiced grace. “Come, let’s get you settled. Maria, could you take Mr. Miller’s coat?”
I handed over my jacket, my best one, though it suddenly felt shabby in these surroundings. Maria accepted it with another of those kind but troubled smiles, disappearing toward what I assumed was a coat closet large enough to house a small family.
“I brought this,” I said, offering the whiskey bottle I’d selected so carefully. “Thought we could share a drink.”
Rick’s face lit up as he examined the label. “Dad, this is fantastic. You shouldn’t have, but I’m glad you did.” He clapped my shoulder with enthusiasm that felt slightly forced. “Emma’s been cooking all afternoon. She remembered how much you love pot roast.”
How did Emma remember my food preferences? We’d shared perhaps three meals together in five years, and I couldn’t recall pot roast being a topic of conversation. But her smile was so warm, so welcoming, that I pushed the thought aside. “You’re too kind,” I told her, meaning it despite my confusion.
“Family takes care of family,” she replied smoothly, linking her arm through mine. “That’s what matters most.”
Rick led us toward what I assumed was the dining room, his stride confident, but something tight around his eyes. Maria had vanished somewhere into the house’s depths, leaving us in this perfect tableau of family reunion. As we walked through rooms that belonged in decorating magazines, I tried to reconcile this obvious wealth with the son who’d asked me for money just a year ago.
The dining room opened before us like something from a period drama. A mahogany table was set for four with china that caught the light from an overhead chandelier. Silver gleamed against white linen, and the scent of cooking pot roast drifted from somewhere beyond swinging doors that probably led to a kitchen larger than my apartment.
“This is beautiful,” I breathed, genuinely awed.
Emma beamed at the compliment. “We want tonight to be special. We want to start over, Jonathan. All of us.”
As Rick pulled out my chair with the practiced ease of someone accustomed to formal dining, I found myself hoping Margaret could see this moment. Her boy had made something of himself, found success beyond our modest dreams. Maybe she’d be proud of how he’d turned out. Maybe she’d approve of this chance at reconciliation I was about to take.
The dining room welcomed us like a scene from a lifestyle magazine. Crystal glasses caught the chandelier’s warm light, casting tiny rainbows across starched white linens. Silver gleamed against bone china that probably cost more than my monthly rent. Each place setting looked like artwork: multiple forks arranged with military precision, cloth napkins folded into perfect peaks.
“This is incredible,” I breathed, running my fingers along the mahogany table’s polished edge.
Rick beamed as he pulled out my chair at the head of the table. “Only the best for family reunions, right, Dad?”
Emma settled gracefully to my left, while Rick claimed the seat to my right. The arrangement felt deliberate, both of them positioned where they could watch my every reaction, guide every conversation. Maria appeared silently from what I assumed was the kitchen, carrying delicate appetizers arranged like tiny sculptures.
“Let’s start with your whiskey,” Rick announced, already opening the bottle I’d brought. The amber liquid caught the light as he poured generous portions into heavy crystal tumblers. “This calls for a proper toast.”
He handed me a glass filled higher than I would have poured for myself. The whiskey’s warmth spread through my chest as Emma raised her wineglass with theatrical grace. “To family,” she said, her smile radiant. “To forgiveness and fresh starts.”
“To Margaret,” Rick added, his voice catching slightly. “She would have wanted us together like this.”
The whiskey burned sweetly as we drank. Margaret always said alcohol loosened tongues and hearts in equal measure. Tonight, surrounded by such obvious prosperity, I found myself wondering what she’d think of this opulent display.