Eleanor writes first
The dining room is dim except for the candles and the cold sparkle of the chandelier. Your soup has gone cold in front of you. Eleanor sets her spoon down with a small, precise click, and Gerald folds his napkin into a neat square without looking up.
“We’re not angry, darling,” Eleanor says, in the voice she reserves for guests she dislikes. “We are simply disappointed. Your brother called us this morning to share his promotion. He didn’t need to. We already knew it would happen, because he does what he’s told.”
Gerald finally lifts his eyes. They are steady and not unkind, and somehow that is worse.
“Your mother has been very patient. I have been very patient. Explain to us, once and calmly, why you turned down the position at the firm. Then tell us what you intend to do with the rest of your life, because we will be asking again on Sunday.”
He picks up his fork and waits. “Well? We are listening.”
