Control. That's what this house smells like.
"Your father's in his study," Mom says, taking my jacket. "He'll be out in a few minutes. Can I get you something to drink? Wine? I have that pinot grigio you?—"
"Just water, please." I say it too quickly, and Mom's eyebrows rise slightly. "I've been trying to cut back a bit."
"Oh. Well, that's very sensible."
She leads me into the living room—all cream sofas and carefully arranged throw pillows and art that was selected by an interior designer, not because anyone in this house actually loves it. Everything is perfect. Pristine. Untouchable.
I sink onto the sofa and accept the glass of sparkling water she brings me.
"So," Mom settles into the chair across from me, her posture perfect as always. "Tell me about work. How's Essence coming along?"
This, at least, I can talk about safely. I tell her about the pitch meeting, about Lawrence Vance's positive response, about the new formulas I'm developing. She listens with genuine interest, and I start to relax a little bit.
It's nice. For a few minutes, it's actually really nice.
Then I hear my dad’s footsteps in the hallway, and my entire body tenses.
"Emma." Dad appears in the doorway, in slacks and a button-down shirt. He retired two years ago, but he still dresses like he's about to walk into a board meeting. "About time you showed up for Sunday dinner."
He says it with a smile, but there's an edge underneath. A reminder that I've been avoiding him, and he doesn’t like it.
"Hi, Dad." I stand, accepting his brief hug. He smells like expensive chemical-laden cologne and scotch. "Work's been crazy."
"Mmm. Your mom tells me you're still playing around with your perfume business." He moves to the bar cart, pouring himself two fingers of whiskey. "How's that going?"
He’s just never going to take me seriously.
"It's going well, actually. I just pitched to a major investor, and he seemed very interested."
Dad's eyebrows rise. "An investor? You're actually trying to make this into a real business?"
The dismissal in his tone makes my jaw clench. "Itisa real business, Dad. I've been building it for over a year now. I have products, suppliers, a business plan?—"
"And how exactly are you funding this venture?" He settles into his chair—the big leather one that's positioned to dominate the room. "Last I checked, you were living in that shoebox apartment and working at a restaurant?"
"I've been funding it myself so far. Through my work and savings."
"Savings." He snorts. "Emma, be realistic. Building a successful company requires capital. Real capital. If you're serious about this, you should let me?—"
"I don't need your money." The words come out sharper than I intended. I force myself to take a breath. "I appreciate the offer, Dad, but I want to do this on my own."
"On your own." He studies me over his whiskey glass, and I feel like I'm twelve years old again, being interrogated about my report card. "And what happens when this investor realizes you don't have the experience or resources to scale? When you burn through whatever small investment he offers?"
"David." Mom's voice is soft, placating. "Let's not?—"
"I'm just being realistic, Helen. Our daughter is twenty-four years old, pretending to be an entrepreneur and refusing any practical assistance." His attention returns to me. "What you need is someone with actual business experience to guide you. Someone who can make the right introductions, help you avoid costly mistakes."
Someone like him. Someone who would take over every decision.
Just like he did with Mom. Just like he does with everything.
"Dinner's ready," Mom announces, standing abruptly. "Emma, sweetheart, why don't you help me in the kitchen?"
I follow her gratefully, escaping Dad's scrutiny. In the kitchen, Mom moves with practiced efficiency, transferring the chicken to a serving platter, checking the roasted vegetables.
"Don't mind your father," she says quietly. "He just worries about you."
