The private room at The Monarch, a high‑end steakhouse tucked into a side street off Chicago’s Magnificent Mile, smelled of truffle oil, seared beef, and quiet money. The kind of place where the napkins are heavier than the rent I paid in grad school and the staff never lets your water glass get less than half full. Floor‑to‑ceiling windows looked out over Michigan Avenue, headlights sliding past in white‑gold streaks, but the shades were half‑drawn, keeping the January cold on the other side of the glass.
Inside, everything was softened—amber lighting, leather banquettes, the low murmur of curated conversation and polite laughter. At the far end of the long table, my sister Lauren sat at the head like a queen on her throne, under a pendant light that made her hair look like it had its own PR team. She was celebrating what she called her “brand launch,” a two‑page spread in a local lifestyle magazine she swore was going to put her on the map.
Behind her, a blown‑up poster of the article leaned against the wall: her face airbrushed and perfect, chin tilted just so, the words RISING STYLE VISIONARY floating above her head like a coronation banner. I’d come straight from the public middle school on the South Side where I teach English. My sensible shoes and Target blazer looked wildly out of place among the designer heels and carefully distressed denim jackets that probably cost more than my monthly car payment.
My mother, Susan, stood up, tapping her fork against her crystal flute. She’d picked a dress that matched the restaurant—muted, expensive, understated in a way that screamed old‑money aspiration. The room hushed instantly.
She knew how to command a crowd; she’d been doing it at PTA meetings, charity galas, church potlucks, and neighborhood barbecues in suburban Illinois my whole life. “To Lauren,” she said, her voice thick with performative pride, letting the words hang just long enough to make people lean in. “To the bravest person in this family.
The one who isn’t afraid to chase big dreams and make them happen.”
She turned her glass toward Lauren like a spotlight. Everyone clapped. The minor investors Lauren had scraped together from her social circle, a few local bloggers who’d shown up for free cocktails and content, friends of friends and people from her spin class—applauded like they were at a premiere.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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