The Sunday dinner table had looked the same for as long as I could remember—Mom’s prized china used only for special occasions and Sunday gatherings, the embroidered tablecloth she’d received as a wedding gift, crystal water glasses that caught the afternoon light from the bay window. Everything meticulously arranged, creating the image of the perfect family meal.
We took our usual seats: Dad at the head of the table, Mom to his right, Troy across from her, and me at the opposite end from Dad. The physical distance between my father and me seemed appropriate, mirroring the emotional space that had always existed.
Mom had outdone herself with the meal—pot roast with carrots and potatoes, homemade rolls, green bean casserole, and a garden salad with vegetables from her backyard garden. The familiar aromas transported me back to childhood Sundays when family tensions seemed simpler, less calcified.
“Looks amazing, Mom,” I said, genuinely appreciative of her efforts.
“Diana, you’ve outdone yourself again,” Dad agreed, surveying the spread with satisfaction.
Troy immediately launched into a story about a celebrity chef he’d supposedly met at a networking event last month.
“He said my palate was refined enough to be a food critic. Offered me a job at his restaurant on the spot, but I told him sales is where the real money is.”
Dad nodded approvingly as he carved the roast.
“Smart move. Those restaurant jobs are all show, no substance. You need a real career with growth potential.”
The irony of this statement, given Troy’s job-hopping history, made me grip my water glass tighter, but I maintained my neutral expression. This was familiar territory—navigating the alternate reality where Troy’s choices were always wise and forward-thinking, regardless of evidence to the contrary.
As we began passing dishes around the table, Dad steered the conversation toward his favorite topic: the declining work ethic of today’s generation.
“These new hires at the plant, they want everything handed to them,” he complained, spooning gravy over his potatoes. “No concept of paying dues or working your way up. First sign of criticism, they’re ready to quit.”
“It’s that participation trophy mentality,” Troy chimed in, always quick to align with Dad’s perspective. “Everyone thinks they deserve recognition just for showing up.”
I had to bite my tongue at this, coming from someone who hadn’t shown up consistently to any job for more than six months.
“Not like when we were coming up,” Dad continued, warming to his theme. “We understood the value of hard work, putting in the hours, making sacrifices.”
Mom nodded along, always his most loyal audience.
“Martin worked so many double shifts when you boys were little. Never complained once.”
Dad pointed his fork at Troy.
“This one gets it. Always hustling, always networking, making things happen instead of waiting for opportunities.”
Troy basked in the praise, straightening his shoulders.
“Just following your example, Dad.”
The conversation continued in this vein through the appetizers and into the main course. Troy shared an elaborate tale about his recent job interview with a Fortune 500 company, complete with the CEO personally sitting in and being so impressed he offered Troy a corner office.
“They’re creating a special position just for me,” Troy explained, helping himself to a second serving of pot roast. “Director of strategic client acquisition. Starting salary would blow your mind.”
“That’s my boy,” Dad beamed, clapping Troy on the shoulder. “Always aiming high.”
“When do you start?” I asked mildly.
A flicker of annoyance crossed Troy’s face.
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