The dinner had been an ordeal from the appetizers. Samantha had arrived in an emerald green silk blouse, complaining audibly that the restaurant smelled of cabbage and lard, while Richard beamed over his plate of braised pork shank and sauerkraut.
“Good food, good prices, honest people,” Dad had said, chewing happily. “No foolish foam or tiny portions on square plates.”
Samantha had smiled thinly, resting her hand over his. “Of course, Richard. Whatever makes you feel comfortable on your special day.”
Around the table sat Natalie, her husband Marcus, two cousins, and myself. When the conversation turned to home ownership, my cousin Brian mentioned that he and his fiancée were struggling to save for their first down payment with interest rates climbing.
“It requires discipline,” Dad remarked, setting his fork down and pointing a blunt finger. “People today want the three-thousand-square-foot house right out of the gate. You have to start small. Put ten percent away every single week before you buy a single beer or a cup of fancy coffee. Sydney, you’re listening to this, right?”
I froze, my water glass halfway to my mouth. “I’m listening, Dad.”
“Your father is so right,” Samantha chimed in, her voice ringing out like a small, clear bell across the table. She turned her hazel eyes upon me, her face a masterclass in maternal melancholy and long-suffering benevolence. “It’s all about priorities. Sydney knows how difficult financial independence can be. Some people simply lack the internal mechanism for delayed gratification. But… we do what we can as parents, don’t we? We carry the burden quietly.”
Natalie sighed, shaking her head as she dabbed her lips with a cloth napkin. “Honestly, Syd, you really ought to be more vocal with your gratitude. Mom has been extraordinarily generous with you this past year, and you act like it’s an entitlement.”
My fork slipped from my fingers, clattering sharply against the rim of my plate.
Across the table, Dad looked down, a shadow of deep, tired disappointment crossing his weathered face. He didn’t say a word; he simply shook his head and reached for his beer.
I stared at Natalie. Then I stared at my mother. Samantha was calmly cutting a piece of roasted potato, her expression utterly serene, entirely untroubled by the fiction she had just tossed into the center of the table.
