DAD SAID “PACK YOUR BAGS” AT CHRISTMAS DINNER – I REMINDED HIM I OWN HIS COMPANY’S BUILDING
The dining room at my parents’ house looked perfect. White lights, gold ornaments, crystal glasses catching the flicker of candlelight like something out of a holiday catalog. The table was set with the good china, the monogrammed napkins, the silver my mother only brought out when she wanted other people to be impressed.
Everything was perfect, except me.
Apparently, I’d arrived at six on the dot, helped set the table, brought the $200 bottle of wine my mother had specifically requested. I’d even worn the dress she’d once called “tastefully understated” instead of the ones she labeled “trying too hard.” A simple black dress from a brand they’d never recognize, black heels, subtle jewelry.
Nothing too loud, nothing too noticeable. My father, Richard Lawson, senior partner at Lawson and Associates, sat at the head of the table in his custom navy suit, the one tailored just enough to show he’d kept his law-school physique.
My mother, Patricia, wore her favorite strand of pearls and the kind of tight smile she saved for charity events and Christmas cards.
My brother Marcus and his wife Emily looked like they’d stepped out of a country club brochure. Marcus in a crisp white shirt and blazer, Emily in a red dress that hugged in all the right places, her hair curled into effortless waves. They were the picture my parents wanted the world to see.
And then there was me.
Sophia Lawson, twenty-nine, the other child. The one who never quite fit the script.
We made it through the small talk, the obligatory comments about traffic and the weather, the way the lights looked on the Lawson house this year. My mother complimented Emily’s earrings.
My father asked Marcus about a case he couldn’t actually talk about but did anyway.
I sipped my wine and stayed quiet. “So, Sophia,” my father finally said, cutting into his prime rib, “Marcus tells me you’re still doing that consulting thing.”
I set my fork down, just for a moment. “Commercial real estate consulting,” I said calmly.
“Yes.”
Marcus snorted.
“Consulting,” he repeated, the word stretched with condescension. “That’s what people call it when they can’t hold a real job.”
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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