“They open up to me about many aspects of their lives. It’s not fake or posed—it’s a real conversation that touches on their opinions and viewpoints. If you read any of the features I’d written, you’d see they’re a little more complex than a social media post,” I add sourly.
“I cannot understand why any adults with half a brain are interested in celebrities,” Dad sniffs. “I would have thought only teenagers would care about narcissistic pop stars talking about their hair color and who kissed whom. Drivel.”
“I don’t write drivel,” I snap, before desperately trying to pull myself back and taking a deep breath to steady my voice when Icontinue. “The average age of the readership ofNarrativeis forty-five years old, and the articles are interesting, well-researched pieces.”
He snorts. My blood boils. I’ve tried, but it has been a week.
And I amexhausted.
“But as a celebrity editor,” Mum jumps in, wrinkling her nose, “you’re hardly writing well-researched pieces, are you?”
“How would you know?” I ask bluntly. “You’ve never taken any interest in what I do or what I write. It doesn’t matter what you classify as ‘serious journalism.’ All that should matter to you is that I love what I do. But you don’t care about that, do you?”
“Here we go,” Dad sighs. “The dramatics. We’re trying to have a civilized family dinner.”
“I’m standing up for myself. If that’s being dramatic, then—”
“Please don’t raise your voice, Harper,” Dad interrupts, holding up his hand. “All your mother was pointing out is that your role doesn’t require the sort of… significant journalism that others do. Like my colleague Jasper’s son, for example, who is a political reporter. Or that columnist I like who writes about economics. Not fluff pieces.”
“My journalism issignificant,” I assert.
But my voice breaks and hot tears prick behind my eyes, threatening to spill over at any moment. They’ve struck a nerve, but the tears are not of sadness. They’re of rage.
You know what? I have hadenoughof people like my parents and sister and Cosmo looking down their nose at me and going out of their way to disparage me. I’m tired of having to prove my worth when I know in my heart that what I doisworthy: I tell people’s stories. Stories that entertain, inspire, and captivate an audience. When a reader relates to a person I interview, no matter how different their lives might be, they feel less alone.
I won’t be told anymore that that’s not important.
I’ve been nothing but polite and decent to my parents tonight;I’ve listened to them, I’ve asked questions about their life. And in return, they’ve prodded and jabbed, trying to get a rise out of me so they can call me the dramatic one.
It’s pathetic. It’s embarrassing. I don’t need approval from people who can’t show any common decency. They can think what they want to think, but I don’t have to sit here and let them make me feel small so they can feel superior.
“I have to go,” I say, peeling my cloth napkin off my lap and bundling it next to my glass. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
“What? You can’t walk out in the middle of dinner!” Dad declares, while Mum merely swirls her wine in her glass, looking unsurprised at my announcement.
“Yes, I can,” I inform him, pushing my chair back. “I don’t want to spend any more time in your company. You do nothing but belittle me. I’m not going to be bullied by my family any longer.”
“Harper,” Dad seethes, his face turning red, “sit down.”
“And spend the evening listening to you congratulate yourselves and tell me how much of a disappointment I am? No, thanks. I’ve made the decision to no longer care whether I disappoint you or not. This little get-together has come at one of the lowest ebbs of my life, and actually, that horrifying timing has provided me with the clarity I need to free myself from you. Even though I’ve been made redundant—yes, there you go, you can dine out on that information, free of charge—and despite not being in a relationship with a Lacoste-wearing, big-earning Ken doll, I feel sorry foryou.”
I point my finger at each of them accusingly to hammer in my point.
“How boring if everyone met your approval and your approval only,” I continue confidently. “The world would have no differences, no color, no fun. Are you even happy? Are youreallyhappy? Because if you were, I don’t understand why you’d wantto bring me down all the time. Ever since I decided to branch out from your idea of success, you have gone out of your way to make me feel like a failure. How does that saying go? ‘Misery loves company.’ Well, you three can go ahead and enjoy these family dinners without me, I really don’t care anymore. I thought that I’d be able to make you proud one day, but Ryan was right all those years ago when he said I should do it for myself. I’m proud because at least I have the guts to follow my own path in the face of your contempt and ridicule. So, in conclusion, screw all of you.”
Mum and Dad stare at me in utter shock at my outburst.
Picking up my bag from under the seat, I get to my feet.
“Harper,” Juliet pipes up, her face crumpling, “wait, please, I need to say something. I—”
“You’re just as bad as them, you know,” I say with disgust, cutting her off. “You’ve never had my back or attempted to stand up for me, even when they were being downright nasty. You’re my big sister, and you never once reached out. I’m really not interested in anythinganyof you have to say.”
Leaving them in silence, I walk out of the restaurant with a smile on my face.
I feel lighter than I’ve felt all week.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
