The mahogany dining table in my parents’ house always looked like it belonged in a magazine—gleaming surface, crystal glasses, thousand-dollar centerpiece that served no purpose except to say we can afford a thousand-dollar centerpiece.
Tonight it felt less like a table and more like a battleground.
My mother sat to my right, posture perfect, nails immaculate, lipstick without a single smudge despite the red wine she kept sipping. Her eyes swept over the Sunday dinner spread—grilled salmon, asparagus with shaved parmesan, truffle mashed potatoes—with the same clinical judgment she used on everyone’s life choices.
My father held court at the head of the table, his phone just off to the side of his plate. He’d pick it up between bites, thumb flicking across the screen, probably checking on some new property listing or loan document, then set it down like he was doing us a favor by being here at all.
Across from me, Marcus leaned back in his chair like he owned the room.
Technically he owned part of it.
Thirty-two years old, custom suit, Rolex peeking out from under his cuff, the exact smirk of a man who’d grown up being told he’d inherit the world and had never once had to wonder if that was true.
I was the only one drinking water.
“So, Jamie,” Mom began, dripping polite curiosity. “Still shuffling papers at that little trading firm?”
Her tone made “little trading firm” sound like “strip mall kiosk selling knockoff sunglasses.”
I cut into my salmon, keeping my voice level. “Something like that.”
“It’s been, what… seven years now?” Marcus chimed in, swirling his wine. “Most people make partner by then. Or at least move up from entry-level work.”
“I’m not entry-level,” I said.
Dad finally looked up from his phone, eyebrows lifted like he’d just remembered I existed.
“But you’re still essentially an employee, right?” he asked. “You work for somebody else.”
“At your age,” he added, “I already owned three apartment buildings.”
“Different industries, Dad.”
“That’s the problem,” Mom cut in, already seizing the opening. “Real estate is tangible. You can see it, touch it. What do you do? Move numbers around on a screen. Gamble with other people’s money.”
“I manage investments,” I said.
Marcus chuckled. “Manage investments. That’s a cute way to say ‘middleman.’ You know what my quarterly bonus was last quarter? Four hundred thousand.” He dropped the number like it was nothing. “From actual real estate deals. Actual buildings. Actual tenants paying actual rent.”
“That’s wonderful, Marcus,” I said.
“Don’t patronize me, Jamie,” he snapped. “I’m just saying, maybe if you’d listened to Dad, come into the family business instead of chasing some Wall Street fantasy, you’d actually have something to show for yourself by now.”
Mom nodded like the world had just been set back on its axis. “Marcus has already bought two investment properties this year alone. He’s building real wealth. Generational wealth.”
“I’m aware,” I said.
“Are you?” Dad asked, setting his phone down and giving me his full attention for the first time that night. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re thirty, still renting that tiny apartment in Manhattan, driving a six-year-old Honda, and working eighty-hour weeks for what? A modest salary and the hope of a decent bonus.”
“My apartment is fine,” I said. “My car runs.”
“And that,” Mom said, shaking her head, “is exactly the mentality that’s holding you back. You ‘settle’ for fine while your brother thrives. Do you know what he drives? A Mercedes S-Class. Fully loaded.”
“I’ve seen it,” I said. “The car is very shiny.”
“And you’re not embarrassed?”
I glanced across the table. Marcus was openly enjoying this.
“Little sister,” he said, leaning forward, elbows on the table, “I’m trying to help you here. There’s still time to pivot. Come work for Dad and me. Learn real estate. Real estate. Start building actual assets instead of playing with spreadsheets.”
“I’m not playing with anything.”
“Oh, honey,” Mom sighed, her voice sharpening into that pitying tone she’d perfected when I was about eight. “We know you’re trying. We just worry that you’ve invested seven years into something that’s never going to give you the returns you deserve. The stock market is so volatile, so unpredictable.”
“It’s really not,” I said, “if you know what you’re doing.”
Dad snorted. “Everyone thinks they know what they’re doing until the market crashes. Remember 2008? Lehman. Bear Stearns. All those so-called experts who thought they were geniuses.”
“I remember,” I said.
“And you still chose that path,” he said, baffled. “Despite seeing what happened. Despite having a perfectly good opportunity to join a stable, profitable family business.”
He shook his head. “I don’t understand you, Jamie.”
“You don’t have to,” I said.
“There it is,” Marcus said, flinging his napkin down. “That attitude. That stubborn, prideful attitude that’s kept you spinning your wheels for seven years.”
“I’m not spinning my wheels.”
“No?” He spread his hands. “Then what do you have to show for it? Where’s your house? Your luxury car? Your investment portfolio?” He gestured around the room. “This house we’re sitting in? I helped Dad buy it. That chandelier? I picked it. The wine we’re drinking? From my collection. What have you contributed to this family besides worry?”
I set my fork down carefully. “I contribute plenty.”
“Like what?” Mom challenged. “You missed your father’s birthday party because you were working. You couldn’t make Marcus’ engagement celebration because of some big meeting. You’re always too busy with work for family, but you have nothing to show for all that sacrifice.”
“You don’t know what I have,” I said.
See more on the next page
Advertisement
