He turned to his business associate, Henry, speaking of property values, what do you think of the zoning changes in the Cambridge corridor? I excused myself to refresh my drink, encountering Sophia in the hallway as she returned from checking on her husband, who was watching the children in the backyard. Don’t let him get to you, she whispered, squeezing my arm. I heard about your model from Michael’s cousin who works in finance, it’s apparently revolutionary.
Her validation warmed me even as I realized how pathetic it was to still crave such approval. As I approached the bar set up in the dining room, I overheard father’s voice drifting from his adjoining study, the door slightly ajar. The car? Yes, quite an upgrade from the old model.
When you work hard and build something from nothing like I have, you earn these luxuries. The male voice responding belonged to Walter Peterson, father’s longtime business rival and sometimes ally. Richard, you old dog, always the modest one, your daughter Eliza mentioned she bought it for you when we chatted earlier, said something about her promotion.
Sounds like she’s making quite a name for herself in New York. A brief silence followed before father’s response, each word precisely chosen. Yes, well, the girl has always been desperate for attention.
Truth is, her success comes from the opportunities I provided, private schools, college connections, the fundamental understanding of business I instilled in all my children. The car is just her way of showing she’s finally applying what I taught her. The casual erasure of my accomplishments, the rewriting of my hard-fought independence as somehow stemming from his influence when he’d offered nothing but criticism, sent a shock of anger through me so intense I nearly dropped my glass.
The conversation continued, father describing how he’d always pushed Eliza harder than the others because she needed that extra discipline, painting himself as the architect of achievements he’d actively dismissed. I retreated before being discovered, anger churning into a cold, clarifying fury. In the main hallway, James intercepted me, his expression uncharacteristically serious.
Eliza, a word? He guided me toward a quiet corner near mother’s prized orchid display. Dad mentioned you’ve been asking mother strange questions about her college years. What exactly are you digging for? His directness caught me off guard.
In truth, after the DNA test, I had casually inquired about mother’s life before marriage, fishing for clues about possible relationships, but I’d thought my questions sufficiently subtle. Just getting to know her better, I replied carefully. Women in her generation didn’t get many opportunities to build their own identities before marriage and children.
James studied me with our father’s analytical gaze, the family resemblance, striking in ways that now felt like further evidence of my exclusion. Look, whatever you’re doing, whatever point you’re trying to make with extravagant gifts and probing questions, just stop. The family has a certain order, a harmony.
Don’t disrupt that with whatever crisis you’re manufacturing. His condescension was so perfectly echoed from father that I almost laughed. Harmony? Is that what you call this toxic hierarchy? This system where one person’s accomplishments are celebrated while another’s are undermined? I’m not manufacturing anything, James.
I’m just finally seeing clearly. He stepped closer, voice lowered to avoid attention. Dad has built everything we have.
The Matthews name means something because of him. Your fancy job in New York, your trendy apartment, it all stems from the foundation he created. Show some respect and gratitude for once.
Before I could respond, our cousin Rachel approached, seeming to sense the tension. Everything okay over here? Aunt Caroline is looking for both of you. I think dinner is about to be announced.
James plastered on his public smile, the perfect son persona slipping seamlessly back into place, just catching up with my little sister. Business talk, nothing important. As he walked away, Rachel touched my arm gently.
You know, my mom always says your father plays favorites like it’s an Olympic sport he’s determined to meddle in. For what it’s worth, I think what you’ve accomplished on your own is pretty incredible. Her quiet support nearly broke my carefully maintained composure.
I’d spent so many years convincing myself that the problem was my perception, not reality, that having someone else acknowledge the dynamic felt paradoxically both validating and devastating. The dinner bell chimed, mother’s signal for everyone to begin moving toward the formal dining room. I lingered behind, fingers brushing the outline of the envelope in my purse, weighing options, consequences, scenarios.
Part of me wanted to leave immediately, to withdraw from this charade of family unity, to protect myself from the inevitable wounds the evening would inflict. But a stronger, perhaps more masochistic part refused to retreat, determined to see this through, to finally confront the lifetime of rejection with the physical evidence of its root cause. I checked the envelope one final time, confirming the test results remained safely sealed inside, then straightened my shoulders and moved toward the dining room, steeling myself for the performance ahead.
The Matthews formal dining room had always struck me as a perfect metaphor for our family, with its imposing mahogany table that seated 20 people yet somehow still felt coldly impersonal. The ancestral portraits watching judgmentally from walls and the elaborate place settings that prioritized appearance over comfort, just like everything else in my father’s carefully constructed world. Mother had outdone herself with table arrangements, crystal glasses catching light from the chandelier, fresh flower centerpieces spaced precisely, name cards in perfect calligraphy assigning each guest their predetermined position in the family hierarchy.
I found my card predictably far down the table, seated between cousin Rachel’s husband, whom I’d met perhaps twice, and one of father’s younger business associates, safely distanced from any meaningful conversation. James and his family occupied the prime positions near father at the head of the table, with Sophia and her husband serving as buffers between the inner circle and lesser relations. Mother sat at the opposite end, her position a perfect illustration of her role in the family, technically equal but separated by the expanse of the table, connected yet distant.
The first course arrived with military precision, weight staff placing, delicate appetizers of seared scallops with microgreens before each guest simultaneously. Father rose, wine glass in hand, commanding immediate silence without requiring a word. Welcome, family and friends, to our annual reunion, he began with.
Practice charm, his public persona polished to a glossy shine. Each year I’m reminded how fortunate I am to have built not just a successful business, but a legacy embodied by my family. His gaze swept proudly over James, who nodded appreciatively, then Sophia, who smiled demurely before sliding past, me as if I occupied the same visual plane as the wallpaper.
A special welcome to the Peterson group joining us this year, he continued, acknowledging his business associates. When surrounded by success, one naturally attracts more of the same. The toast continued with father highlighting James’ recent business expansion, Sophia’s community board appointment, and ending with a pointed comment that family success comes from embracing proven pathways rather than unnecessarily challenging.
Traditions, his eyes finally landing briefly on me with unmistakable meaning. As the meal progressed through five elaborate courses, father directed conversation with subtle cues and direct questions, ensuring topics remained within his preferred domains of real estate markets, local politics where he held influence, and occasional sports discussions that inevitably highlighted James’ former athletic achievements. When mother gently attempted to mention my recent promotion during a lull, father smoothly intercepted.