"He wants to control me. There's a difference, Mom."
Mom's hands still for just a moment. Then she continues plating. "He wants what's best for you."
"What hethinksis best for me."
She doesn't respond. This is what she's done their whole marriage—made excuses for him, smoothed over his controlling behavior, sacrificed her own voice to keep the peace.
This is exactly what I swore I'd never become.
I help carry the food to the dining room, where Dad has already seated himself at the head of the table. Mom takes her usual spot to his right, and I sit across from her, positioning my chair so the table obscures my midsection.
Dinner is exactly what I expected. Dad dominates the conversation, talking about politics, about the state of real estate in Manhattan, about various people he knows and their successes or failures. Mom makes small comments of agreement. I push food around my plate and try to look engaged.
"So," Dad says, cutting into his chicken. "Have you been seeing anyone? Dating?"
I nearly drop my fork. "What?"
"It's a simple question, Emma. You're twenty-four. I assume you have some kind of social life."
"I've been focused on work, Dad."
"Hmm. Helen, didn't you say Emma looked different? Glowing or something? Isn’t that what happens when you have someone special in your life?"
Mom's eyes meet mine across the table, worried. "I just meant she looks healthy. And happy."
"Happy." Dad studies me with intense eyes. "You do look different. What is it?"
"Nothing. I'm just—the business is going well. I'm hopeful about the investor. That's all."
Shit. Shit. Shit.
He doesn't look convinced, but he lets it drop, transitioning instead to a complaint about the co-op board in his building. I exhale slowly, my heart still racing.
We make it through the main course. I accept a small serving of the apple crisp Mom made for dessert, even though my stomach is twisted in knots. Dad pours himself another whiskey. Mom offers coffee.
This is almost over. I can make it through this.
Then Dad says, "You know, I haven't seen Grant in weeks. Usually, we play golf at least twice a month, but he's been strangely unavailable."
My hand freezes halfway to my mouth, the fork suspended in midair.
"Grant's been busy," I hear myself say. "Big acquisition in the works."
Shit. Why did I say that? How would I know that?
Dad's eyes narrow. "How do you know about his acquisition?"
"I—" My mind races. "You mentioned it last time his name came up.”
"No," Dad says slowly. "I don't remember saying anything about that."
"I’m pretty sure you did." I take a sip of water, willing my hand to be steady. "Anyway, I'm sure he's just swamped."
"Hmm." Dad leans back in his chair, still studying me. "It's strange, though. Grant's never been too busy for golf before. Makes me wonder if something's going on with him. He seemed distracted last time we talked. Distracted and—I don't know. Different."
Oh God. This is it. This is where it all falls apart.
"Maybe he's still getting over the divorce," I say, desperate to redirect. "It was pretty brutal, wasn't it? Victoria really did a number on him."
