‘We Didn’t Order For You,’ Dad Said, Handing Me Bread While My Brother Enjoyed His $400 Steak. His Wife Sneered, “Be Grateful You’re Invited.” When The Bill Came, Dad Said: “Let’s Split It Fairly.”
I REPLIED: “SURE-I’LL.”
My Parents Gave Me Bread While My Brother Got $400 Steak. When Bill Came, I Said…
‘We Didn’t Order For You,’ Dad Said, Handing Me Bread While My Brother Enjoyed His $400 Steak.
His Wife Sneered, “Be Grateful You’re Invited.” When The Bill Came, Dad Said: “Let’s Split It Fairly.” I Replied: “Sure — I’ll…”
My name is Carrie Il. Most people just call me Carrie, and I’m 32 years old. The Tuesday the text arrived, Bangkok was rinsed in a late afternoon storm that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be dramatic or just humid.
My phone buzzed. Dad. Family dinner Friday.
Morton’s 7:00 p.m. Your brother’s treating. Dress nice.
Not an invitation, a directive. I typed back, “Sounds good.” Dad replied, “Classy place,” which, in Dad speak, meant don’t embarrass me. I should explain the family scoreboard before we sit down at the table.
I write code and keep my plants alive. Comfortable salary job. Enough savings to sleep at night.
My older brother Connor Il is 35 and speaks fluent bonus investment banking. Watch glinting. A house with a lawn that looks airbrushed.
Before Mom died two years ago, she ran interference, insisting the two of us were equal in her eyes. After she was gone, the balance evaporated. Dad’s gaze followed the shine.
Connor closed a sevenf figureure deal, became the family weather. I became the forecast he never checked. And then there’s Victoria, Connor’s wife, with the immaculate dress and immaculate disdain.
Old money finishing school, new money, taste for spectacle. At their wedding, she tacked my place card to table 17 near a man named Todd who lectured me about crypto like he’d invented math. We orbit the same family photos but not the same room.
Morton’s on Friday was an arena. I parked three blocks away because the valet sign said $30 and my petty refused. The hostess glanced at my rained hair like I’d tracked in a puddle.
Reservation? She asked. Email under Connor.
Her smile flipped like a switch. The good tables live where the stakes breathe different air. Write this way.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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