Our pre-course salads arrive. Father cuts his romaine into small bites, knife blade flashing under the recessed lighting.
“I spoke with your mother this morning,” he says after several methodical chews. “She’s concerned about the wedding preparations.”
My fork pauses halfway to my mouth. Here it comes, the real purpose of this lunch.
“Everything’s on track,” I say carefully. “We’ve tentatively confirmed the venue and the catering.”
“That’s not her concern.” Father’s eyes meet mine for the first time. “She’s worried about Harley’s adjustment to our family’s standards.”
The words land like perfectly aimed darts.
“Harley’s doing fine,” I counter. “It’s an adjustment period for everyone.”
“Of course.” Father spears another piece of lettuce. “Moving into our home must be quite overwhelming for someone of her background.”
“Harley is accomplished in her own right,” I say, attempting a defense. “Her work makes real differences in children’s lives. Just last month, she reunited a mother in recovery with her kids after fighting a system stacked against her.”
Father’s expression remains neutral, but his eyes cool several degrees. “Admirable work, certainly. Though I wonder if such intensive career demands will align with the expectations of a Thompson spouse. Our family foundation could certainly use her expertise in a more appropriate capacity. Leave the charity to the bleeding hearts.”
I should correct him. I should explain that Harley’s career is her calling, not a stepping-stone to becoming a Thompson accessory. The words form in my throat but dissolve.
“She’s passionate about her cases,” is all I manage.
Our entrées arrive, saving me from further inadequate defenses. Father cuts into his prime rib, the pink center yieldingexactly to his specifications. Meanwhile, I pick at my sea bass, my appetite curdling in the heat of his silence.
“Amanda always understood the importance of family connections,” Father remarks casually, as if noting a shift in the wind. “Her work brings her in contact with the right circles—strategic relationships that benefit everyone involved.”
The mention of my ex-fiancée makes my chest tighten, a sharp, cold pressure. “Amanda and I wanted different things, Father. Unlike Harley and me.”
I wait for the explosion, for him to argue or scoff.
Instead, he doesn’t even glance up from his plate. He simply lifts a brow—a slow, clinical movement that makes my defense feel like a child’s tantrum. “Did you?”
That’s it. No debate, no acknowledgment of the woman I’ve chosen. He just pivots back to his meal, his indifference more devastating than a shout. He doesn’t need to argue that I’m wrong; he just treats my conviction like a temporary delusion.
As he signals for the check, I realize I’ve eaten almost nothing. The sea bass sits mostly untouched, a testament to an appetite destroyed by the realization that I am shouting into a void.
“I’ll have the Henderson revisions on your desk by tomorrow,” I say, retreating to the safety of work talk—the only language he actually respects.
Father nods, mission accomplished. He’s planted his seeds of doubt, reminded me of Amanda’s continued presence in our social circle, and undermined our wedding plans, all without raising his voice or making a single direct demand.
And I let him. Again.
The Henderson blueprints blur before my eyes. I force myself to focus on the structural supports—things I can control. When my phone vibrates against my desk, Mother’s name lighting up the screen, my stomach drops. The call is always about the same thing lately. Her wedding.
I grab my phone and stand in one fluid motion, moving toward the conference room I know is empty this afternoon. The glass door slides shut behind me with a soft click. I draw a deep breath before answering.
“Hello, Mother.”
“Skyler, darling.” Her voice fills the empty room. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”
“Just reviewing some blueprints,” I say. “What’s up?”
“I’ve made some progress with the wedding plans that I simply must share.”
“Mother, Harley and I have a planning session this weekend. We were going to—”
“I’ve adjusted the color palette,” she continues as if I hadn’t spoken. “Silver and navy. Much more appropriate for a Thompson wedding than that rustic theme Harley had suggested.”
