“Happy birthday, Dad. How does it feel to be 60?”
“Feels like 59, but with more people reminding you you’re getting old.”
He gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit down.
Tell me about New York. Still at that same company.”
This was his way of asking if I had advanced in my career, if I was finally becoming the success he had always demanded. I sat and gave him the simplified version of my professional life—challenging but rewarding, good prospects for the future, enjoying the city.
I didn’t mention my promotion, my client portfolio, or my income. Experience had taught me that sharing achievements only led to them being minimized or compared unfavorably to Melody’s. Speaking of Melody, she arrived with her trademark dramatic entrance about an hour later.
The doorbell rang repeatedly, followed by her voice calling out:
“The favorite child has arrived! Where’s my birthday boy?”
My father transformed before my eyes, rising from his chair with newfound energy, his face breaking into a wide smile. “There she is,” he called back, heading to the front door.
I remained seated, listening to the effusive greetings, the exclamations over how wonderful she looked, the laughter at whatever clever thing she had just said when they entered the den. Melody gave me a quick artificial hug. “Little brother, looking corporate as always.
Do they make you wear a tie on weekends too?”
She laughed as though she’d said something hilarious, and my parents chuckled along. “Good to see you too, Melody,” I replied with a practiced smile. Dinner was scheduled for 6:00.
My mother had prepared all of Melody’s favorite dishes—her famous pot roast, scalloped potatoes, roasted Brussels sprouts with bacon (which Melody claimed to have introduced to the family, though I had been making them for years), and chocolate lava cake for dessert. We gathered around the dining table that had been in my mother’s family for generations, a heavy oak piece that had witnessed countless family dynamics play out over its polished surface. My father sat at the head, my mother at the foot, with Melody and me facing each other across the middle.
The good china was out, along with the crystal glasses that were only used for special occasions. The tension beneath the celebration was palpable—at least to me. My mother fluttered around Melody, refilling her water glass whenever it dropped below half, asking if the temperature of the food was to her liking.
My father engaged her in animated conversation about her job in pharmaceutical sales, asking detailed questions about her clients and strategies. When the conversation occasionally turned to me, it was perfunctory. “And Cashis, how is your work?” my mother asked during a lull, as though suddenly remembering I was there.
Before I could respond, my father raised his glass. “Before we get too far into dinner, I’d like to propose a toast.”
We all lifted our glasses. “To 60 years of life.
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