These gatherings grew more infrequent as I focused on my career. I’d begun to gain traction with smaller nature magazines, and my Instagram following was growing steadily. Last year, I spent three months in Montana capturing the daily life of a wolfpack, an assignment that paid modestly but built my reputation among wildlife photographers.
Not that my family noticed. When I mentioned this project during Thanksgiving dinner, my father changed the subject to Amanda’s new research grant. My small victories remained invisible at home, my passion still reduced to an immature rebellion in their eyes.
Despite everything, some stubborn part of me still craved their approval. I kept showing up for family events, kept mentioning my small successes, kept hoping for some acknowledgement that I hadn’t made a terrible mistake. But as the years passed, that hope grew thinner, replaced by a quiet determination to succeed on my own terms.
The call from my mother came on a Tuesday afternoon while I was editing photos from a recent bird migration series. Her voice carried that forced cheerfulness that always put me on edge.
“Sheldon, darling, we’re having a special family dinner this Friday. Amanda has someone important she wants us to meet.”
I knew immediately what this meant. Amanda had been dating someone new for a few months, and apparently this one had lasted long enough to meet the parents. In our family, bringing someone to dinner was practically an announcement of serious intentions.
“I’m pretty busy with a project deadline,” I hedged, though the truth was, I’d rather spend the evening cleaning my camera lenses than enduring another Westbrook family inquisition.
“This is important to your sister.” My mother’s voice took on that slight edge that meant refusal wasn’t an option. “Everyone will be there. Six o’clock sharp. And Sheldon?”
She paused.
“Wear something appropriate.”
After hanging up, I stared at my calendar. The dinner fell exactly three days before I would hear back about the National Geographic submission—a photograph of a rare mountain lion mother and cubs I’d spent weeks tracking in Colorado. If accepted, it would be my first major breakthrough. Part of me wanted to wait until I had news, maybe finally something that would impress them. But experience had taught me that hypothetical success never counted with the Westbrooks. Only tangible, preferably framed, credentials on the wall mattered.
For the next few days, I vacillated between dread and a faint, foolish hope that maybe this time would be different. Maybe Amanda’s happiness would soften the usual dynamics. Maybe her boyfriend would be someone interesting who might actually care about photography or nature conservation.
Friday evening arrived with depressing speed. I stood in front of my closet trying to decipher what my mother meant by “appropriate.” I settled on dark jeans and a blue button-down shirt that didn’t have any visible wrinkles—professional enough to avoid immediate criticism, but not so formal that it looked like I was trying too hard. I even polished my one decent pair of shoes.
The drive from Brooklyn to Greenwich always felt like a journey back in time. With each mile, I could feel myself reverting from independent adult to disappointing son. I rehearsed neutral topics of conversation and prepared standard responses to the inevitable questions about my career situation.
Just get through dinner, I told myself. Smile, deflect, escape.
The memory of last Thanksgiving flashed through my mind: my father’s pointed questions about my retirement plan—nonexistent—and health insurance—barely adequate. My mother’s suggestion that her friend’s law firm was always looking for “bright young people” for their administrative team. Amanda’s smug smile as she described her new luxury apartment.
As I pulled into the familiar driveway, the imposing colonial house loomed before me, windows glowing with warm light that somehow never seemed to reach me. The contrast between this house and my cramped apartment always struck me anew. Here, space was abundant, furniture was heirloom quality, and every object had been selected for its ability to impress visitors.
Maria, the housekeeper who had been with my family since I was a child, opened the door. Unlike my parents, her smile was genuine.
“Mr. Sheldon,” she said warmly. “So good to see you. You’re looking too thin. They haven’t started yet. You can still sneak a cookie from the kitchen.”
It was our old routine from when I would come home from school, hungry and looking for comfort. Her small kindness nearly undid me.
“Thanks, Maria,” I said, hanging up my jacket. “How are things here?”
“Same as always,” she replied with a knowing look. “Your sister’s young man seems nice. Very polite.”
That was Maria code for appropriate Westbrook material. I nodded, already feeling the weight of expectations settling on my shoulders.
Outside the dining room, I paused to gather myself. Through the doorway, I could hear the murmur of conversation—my father’s authoritative tone dominating, punctuated by feminine laughter that must belong to my mother and Amanda. A deeper, unfamiliar voice occasionally joined in—the boyfriend, presumably.
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