Son.
No name. No identity. Just a category.
This woman is so pretentious it’s almost comical.
Father nods. “What does the boy do?”
My father runs his dinner table like his boardroom: with precision, condescension, and an unshakable belief in his own superiority. Why she married him is beyond me.
Mother dabs the corner of her mouth with a cloth napkin she hasn’t dirtied. “He’s there to help. Chop vegetables. Carry groceries. Nothing complicated.”
My father turns to me. “Stay out of the kitchen.”
“Because my presence might contaminate the produce?” I counter.
His eyes flicker. “Because you’re a distraction. And you’re a Danforth.”
I almost laugh. Being a Danforth is a title worth defending.
“Angela comes highly recommended,” Mother adds, placating. “Margret recommended her.”
“And who is Margret?”
“You remember, she was the head of the household for the Winslows.”
Father’s head bobs up and down. “Yes. Good. They are old money. Discreet.”
There it is again. That word.
Discreet.
My father worships discretion the way some people worship God. Preferably a god with a tight-lipped lawyer and offshore accounts.
He cuts into his filet mignon with precision.
“If this goes well, I might offer her a long-term contract,” Mother adds, trying desperately to engage him in more conversation.
“How generous,” I say. “And her son?”
He pauses, sips his wine. “Help is help. He’ll take what he’s given and be grateful.”
I push my small, chopped asparagus pieces into a line. “Maybe he has a name.”
My father doesn't answer. He never does when he's decided the conversation is over.
After dinner, which should probably be referred to as torture, I slip away before coffee is served.
I know the routine. The adults, a.k.a. the parentals, will stay and discuss estate finances and upcoming fundraisers. My mother will pretend to be interested in business. My father will pretend to value her input. It’s all so exhausting.
Instead, I head toward the back staircase, the one that leads to the servants' wing. I don’t usually take this path, but I’m dying to bump into the son.
The estate is quiet this time of night. The kind of silence that echoes. Polished hardwood. Dim lighting. Hallways lined with portraits of long-dead relatives who were probably awful people.
I don’t know why I’m looking for him.
Curiosity, maybe. Or guilt that he was the subject of dinner conversation, but not important enough to be named.
Maybe I just want to see the look on his face when I give him a preemptivesorry. Followed by,my father will most likely treat you like garbage.
