But my throat tightens. The rain suddenly seems louder. My mother’s expectant gaze holds me in place as surely as if she’d tied me down.
“Let’s get inside,” I say instead, hating myself for the sudden retreat. “It’s starting to rain harder.”
Harley’s eyes meet mine for a brief moment. She understands what just happened, and more importantly, what didn’t happen. One for two.
My father gestures toward the house. “Morris will bring in your bags after fumigation.”
As we walk up the steps, my mother’s arm linked through mine, pulling me slightly ahead of Harley, I make another silent promise to myself.
Tomorrow. I’ll be stronger tomorrow.
But the familiar weight of the Thompson threshold beneath my feet whispers that some promises are made to be broken.
Inside, the Thompson dining room stretches before us like a museum exhibit. “American wealth, late 20th century.” Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light across the twenty-foot mahogany table where my ancestors glare down from gold-framed portraits, judging our posture, our conversation, our worthiness to carry their name. I pull out Harley’s chair, positioning her between my mother and me, a buffer I already know will prove completely inadequate. Father takes his usual place at the head of the table, already reaching for the wine decanter—a Bordeaux, no doubt, selected to impress rather than complement the meal.
“Skyler, darling, tell us more about this mold situation.” Mother arranges her napkin on her lap, her movements practiced and elegant. “It sounds absolutely dreadful. How did your building management allow such a thing?”
I clear my throat, reaching for the water glass. “It was a pipe leak in the unit above ours. Went undetected for months.”
“In the entire building?” Father raises a brow. My address has been a point of contention ever since I moved out of their pre-approved luxury condo into a building of my choosing with Harley.
“These things happen in any structure,” I say, trying to keep my voice casual. “Even multi-million-dollar homes can have water damage.”
His mouth tightens. “Not with proper maintenance and oversight.”
A maid—new since my last visit—appears with the first course of soup. The steam rises with a hint of saffron.
“So, Harley,” Mother begins, her voice carrying that particular tone that makes my shoulders automatically tense. “Skyler tells us you’re working on a custody case? For underprivileged children, was it?”
Harley sets down her spoon, her posture straightening. I recognize her professional mode activating. “Yes. The mother has completed rehabilitation and is working to regain custody of her children from their father, who has substance abuse issues at home.”
“How admirable,” Mother says with a tight smile. “It must be emotionally draining, dealing with those sorts of people day after day.”
Those sorts of people. My fingers tighten around my spoon.
“Actually, Mother—” I begin, but my throat constricts. “I’m very proud.”
“I find it incredibly rewarding,” Harley responds smoothly. “These families are working through difficult circumstances with remarkable resilience.”
Mother’s smile remains fixed. “Of course, dear. I’ve always said it takes a special type of person to work in charity sectors for the less deserving.” She glances at me. “Though I imagine the compensation leaves something to be desired compared to what you could earn in the private sector. Especially with a wedding to fund, and now this housing crisis.”
Say something, I command myself. Defend her. Defend them—the people Harley serves.
My fork rattles against the fine china as I set it down too forcefully. Everyone glances at me, waiting.
“Harley’s work is important,” I say, but the words come out weaker than I intend. “She makes a real difference.”
“No one’s suggesting otherwise,” Father says, his tone indicating he’s about to do exactly that. “But Robert Thompson Construction has connections with several private foundations that offer substantial positions for someone with Harley’s background. Better hours, better pay.” He turns to Harley. “Perhaps this temporary living situation is an opportunity to reconsider your options.”
What would a social worker do at a construction site? Sure, they could search for financial help for projects, but that’s not the kind of work my family does. We do multi-million-dollar projects. Our clients don’t require financial assistance. Besides, even if they did, I can guarantee Harley wouldn’t be in any sort of charitable role. Instead, they’d force her to work administration or accounts payable.
The implication is clear: become the kind of professional the Thompsons deem appropriate or remain an object of their disdain.
“I appreciate the thought,” Harley says, maintaining her composure, “but I’m committed to my current position.”
“Well, commitment is admirable,” Mother says as the main course arrives, “though flexibility can be equally valuable. Especially now, with your wedding approaching.” She cuts a perfect bite of herb-crusted salmon. “Speaking of which, perhaps this delay with your apartment is fortuitous timing.”
“Fortuitous?” I repeat, finding my voice.
