Part 1
As Mom served him the second helping of turkey, her words lingered in the air, and my brother, Brandon, smiled into his wine glass. Dad continued, waving his fork.
I am 33 years old, I still rent an apartment in Seattle, what do I do? I play computer games.
My family members – aunts, uncles, cousins – sat uncomfortably in their chairs, but no one protected me. Never did.
I took a slow sip of water, carefully set the glass down, and watched the steam gather at the bottom of my mother’s expensive tablecloth. My phone vibrated for the seventh time in my coat pocket. I ignored it. The notifications could wait. They had been waiting for months.
‘I’ll do it,’ I said curtly, as I sliced the dry turkey breast.
My mother never learned how to make it properly and always baked it for too long, because my father liked it well done.
‘Management is not a booming sector,’ declared my father, heating up the subject as he always did when he had an audience. ‘Your brother just closed a big deal at Redstone. It saved the company half a million dollars in operating costs.’
Brandon sat up straight in his chair, strutting like a peacock. At 35, he still lived for his father’s approval. He still worked for the same manufacturing company where our father had worked for thirty years and had risen to vice president of operations.
That is a real achievement, Maya. It doesn’t matter what kind of technical support role you have.
I smiled. I really smiled, because they thought I worked in technical support. Some vague technical support position that barely lets you pay the bills. I let them think that for years. Every time I dodged questions about my work, I let them assume the worst.
‘Technology changes fast,’ I said softly. ‘In my field, nothing is ever truly stable.’
‘Exactly,’ said my father, as if I had agreed with him. ‘Brandon has security, good employment conditions, and a pension plan. Redstone Manufacturing has been running smoothly for 60 years. And you work for a start-up that could disappear just like that tomorrow. You probably only earn 30,000 dollars a year, if you’re lucky.’
He shook his head with exaggerated pity.
I told you to study accounting, the practical, stable variety. But no, you had to avoid that computer nonsense.
Aunt Carol, my father’s sister, cleared her throat awkwardly.
“Richard, maybe…”
‘I’m just being honest,’ he interrupted her, raising his hand. ‘Someone needs to bring her back down to earth. She’s 33, Carol. She’s still single. She has no possessions, no real career. I already owned this house when she was her age.’
He pointed to the four-bedroom colonial-style house in Belleview, a house he would never let anyone forget, because he had bought it in 1993.
My phone started vibrating again. Three sharp pulses. I recognized the pattern. My assistant, Sarah, had assigned me something urgent, probably something that had pushed back the deadline.
I reached for the wine, realized my hand was perfectly steady, and felt a cool satisfaction in my chest. Brandon looked at me with a familiar mixture of pity and superiority.
‘It is not too late, Mayu,’ he offered generously. ‘I could talk to Dad. Maybe I can arrange an interview for you in our administration department. It is not a prestigious job, but it is a stable one.’
‘That’s fine,’ I replied in a friendly voice. ‘How is Redstone doing? I read something about the problems in the manufacturing industry.’
Dad waved.
Oath to the media. Redstone is rock solid. We have weathered every storm for decades. Not like those technology bubbles that burst every few years.
He pointed his fork at me.
That is the difference between the real world and the fantasy world you live in.
I nodded slowly and put the wine down.
‘Fantasy,’ I repeated softly.
My phone started vibrating again. This time I picked it up and looked at the screen for a moment. Sarah’s message was short.
The deal has been finalized earlier than planned. The board meeting has been postponed until Monday. I have attached a draft of the press release. Congratulations, boss.
I looked at my father, at his self-satisfied look, at Brandon’s sympathetic expression, and at my mother’s silent resignation to this annual ritual of humiliation.
15 years. It has been 15 years since I left that house at 18, armed with nothing but a Stanford scholarship and the promise to myself that I would never need their approval again.
‘Dad,’ I said softly, as I put my phone back in my pocket. ‘Here? I need to call you. It’s business.’
He snorted.
Look, you can’t enjoy Thanksgiving without some technical problem or other. You can’t live like that, Maya.
I stood up, straightened my coat, and smiled again.
‘You are absolutely right,’ I agreed. ‘You absolutely cannot go on living like this.’
As I walked to the hallway, I heard Brandon mumble, “I’m probably going to be fired,” and then my father burst out laughing.
In the bathroom
