1. The Feast of the Parasites
The dining room of my mother’s sprawling, suburban mock-Tudor home was a masterpiece of performative wealth and suffocating, aggressive perfectionism.
It was Easter Sunday. Twenty-five relatives—aunts, uncles, cousins, and various hangers-on—sat crammed shoulder-to-shoulder around a massive, custom-built oak table. The heavy wood was practically groaning under the weight of an outrageously extravagant, catered feast. There were towering, silver-tiered platters of prime rib, glistening glazed hams, bowls of truffle-whipped potatoes, and crystal decanters filled with imported, full-bodied red wine.
Massive, ostentatious floral arrangements of white lilies and orchids dominated the center of the table, their heavy, cloying perfume battling with the scent of roasted meat and the forced, brittle cheer of the guests.
At the absolute head of the table sat my mother, Eleanor Vance.
She was dressed in a tailored, emerald-green silk blouse, a heavy, authentic diamond pendant glittering aggressively at her throat. She held court like a reigning monarch, her posture perfect, her smile tight and calculating. She directed the conversation with the practiced ease of a woman who believed her opinions were unquestionable facts.
I sat as far away from her as physically possible, relegated to the very end of the table near the swinging doors of the kitchen.
I was twenty-nine years old. I was wearing a simple, understated navy blouse and slacks. I was profoundly, bone-wearily exhausted, running on four hours of sleep after a brutal, seventy-hour workweek managing the backend architecture of the cybersecurity startup I had founded five years ago.
No one at the table asked me about my company. No one asked if I was tired. No one asked if I was happy.
