Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 115683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
So here I am, having procured her favorite cake from her favorite bakery. We’ll enjoy it after brunch at the buzzy French bistro where I made a reservation weeks ago. Mom loves that spot.
Dad looks up at me from the magazine he’s reading on the family room couch. “You haven’t gotten an offer yet, Lainey.”
“It’ll happen.” My younger brother Pete, who’s a senior in high school, is seated beside him, scrolling on his phone. “You’re smart. They’ll notice.”
Y’all aren’t hearing me, I want to say. I just told you I got the ick during my interview. I don’t want to work at Prestige Partners. I don’t want to work in private equity, period.
Instead, I sip my wine and stay quiet. Mostly because I don’t have an answer to the inevitable question Mom and Dad will ask: If I don’t want to work at Prestige, where do I want to work?
What do I want to do if I no longer want a career in PE? I’ve been passed over by five private equity firms since I graduated from business school back in May. My professors and classmates just made it seem like PE was the ticket to an exciting and lucrative career. Yes, I was “only” gunning for a position in marketing instead of those income-producing seats everyone kept mentioning during my interview. But marketing jobs still pay very well in the sector.
While I do want that kind of high-paying career—being financially independent is super important to me—I’ve realized I’d be miserable cooped up in an office like Prestige’s, working for people who clearly don’t respect me.
My youngest brother, Andrew, a high school sophomore, doesn’t say anything. He just yawns, feet up in the recliner, arm bent behind his head. He’s been watching ESPN since I arrived an hour ago.
I keep turning over the meatballs while turning over a familiar question in my head: Why am I the only one in the kitchen helping Mom with dinner? Didn’t I have a long day too? Don’t I get to relax too?
But that’s a road of eldest (and only) daughter problems that leads nowhere. So I try my best to ignore the familiar flame of anger that burns oh so brightly in my chest. I tilt my head to one side, then the other, hoping to relieve the tension in my neck.
This is how it’s always been in our family: women in the kitchen, men on the couch. It will be different in my house when, God willing, I have a family of my own. But here, double standards and rigid gender roles are just a fact of life.
Dad sniffs at the air. Expecting him to tell us how good the house smells, I feel my heart twist when he makes a face instead.
“Michelle, those meatballs aren’t turkey, are they?”
I glance at Mom, who’s busy sliding the garlic bread into the oven. “What’s that?”
“The meatballs—they don’t smell like the beef ones I like.”
Whew, that has me holding the tongs in a death grip. I don’t know why Dad gets me so riled up.
That’s a lie. He gets you riled up because he can be rude and selfish and completely ignorant of your mother’s needs. And then she’s rude to you because you’re the only one who cares enough to talk to her.
“Kenny,” she says. “I worked hard on these. Your cardiologist said—”
“Eating beef once in a while isn’t going to kill anyone.”
I grab my wine. “It could kill you, actually.”
“Fine. I just won’t eat, then.” He’s pouting.
“Dad, they’re going to be delicious,” I try. “You won’t even be able to tell.”
“I’ll be able to tell.”
“Kenny,” Mom says. “Just try them. I bet you’ll—”
“Absolutely not.”
“Are you kidding?” She raises her voice, making my stomach clench. Please, God, not another fight. “You’re acting like a five-year-old. If you want to stay alive—”
“Stop with the hysterics.” Dad rolls his eyes. “I’ll be fine.”
Mom sets down her wineglass with a loud clink and lets out a mirthless laugh. “We’ll see about that.”
“So you want me to die,” Dad snaps.
Mom rolls her eyes. “What? That makes no sense.”
“Meatballs made with some kind of bullshit health stuff don’t make sense.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” Mom replies.
“I work twelve-hour days for this family,” he shoots back. “There’s nothing ridiculous about that.”
“Well, I think they smell delicious, Mom.” I clear my throat. “The meatballs.”
“Just make sure they don’t burn,” she bites out.
I feel bad knowing that my biggest fear is ending up like my mother. She’s a good person who’s worked hard her whole life. She showed up to every recital, volunteered to be room parent every year, and has made three square meals for us day in and day out over the past two decades.
But because she gave up her career to raise us, she doesn’t have things like her own 401(k) or savings. She’s totally dependent on my dad.