Fast forward three years. The memory of the wedding had faded into a dull ache, a constant reminder of my place in the family hierarchy. Marcus and his wife Sophia were hosting a summer party at their massive sterile mansion in the Hamptons. We were, of course, expected to attend. Refusing would have caused a family war, and honestly, I was too tired to fight.
I spent a week crafting the perfect housewarming gift for them. It was a small coffee table made from a gorgeous piece of reclaimed cherry wood with intricate dovetail joints and a finish so smooth it felt like silk. I was proud of it. It was a piece of my soul.
We arrived, and the place was like a movie set. People in designer clothes sipping champagne, air-kissing each other, their laughter sounding brittle and fake. Sophia, a social media influencer whose entire life was a carefully curated performance, greeted us at the door.
“Charles. Eleanor. So glad you could make it,” she said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.
She glanced at the table in my hands.
“Oh, what’s this? How rustic.”
She took it from me like it was contaminated, handing it off to a member of the catering staff.
“Just put this somewhere in the back. Maybe the patio,” she instructed before turning her attention to a wealthier-looking couple behind us.
I saw where the caterer put it, tucked away in a corner of the sprawling patio next to a trash can.
The entire evening was a masterclass in condescension.
Marcus paraded me around to his finance buddies like a court jester.
“This is my little brother, Charles,” he’d say with a theatrical sigh. “He’s the artist in the family. Works with his hands. Can you imagine?”
One of his friends, a guy with a slicked-back ponytail, actually patted me on the shoulder.
“Good for you, man. Someone’s got to do the real work, right?”
He said it with a smirk that made me want to punch him.
Eleanor, bless her heart, tried her best. She attempted to make conversation, but her stories about a new soil regeneration project she was working on were met with blank stares and polite, dismissive nods. They didn’t care about the earth. They only cared about what could be extracted from it for profit.
The low point came when we were all gathered in the living room. Marcus was holding court, bragging about a recent investment that had netted him a huge return.
“It’s all about foresight,” he declared, puffing out his chest. “You have to know which companies are dinosaurs ready to fail and which are the future.”
He then turned his gaze directly on me.
“Speaking of dinosaurs, how’s the whittling business, little brother? Still playing in the dirt?”
The room went quiet. All eyes were on me. My face burned. For a second, I had nothing. My old fear, the one that whispered I was a failure, that my father was right, that Marcus was right, screamed in my ears.
But then Eleanor’s voice cut through the silence, cool and clear.
“At least we sleep well at night, Marcus,” she said, taking a calm sip of her water, “without worrying about whose retirement fund we just gambled away.”
You could have heard a pin drop.
Marcus’ face went from smug to thunderous in a split second. Sophia gasped dramatically. My mother shot Eleanor a look that could curdle milk.
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