“I’m sure Emily enjoys her meals,” Mom said with false kindness. “Not everyone has refined pallets. There’s no shame in preferring simple food.”
I cut into my ribeye.
Perfectly cooked, exactly as I’d instructed Chef Marcus to prepare it, and said nothing.
“The thing about truly luxury experiences,” Uncle Harold continued, warming to his favorite topic, “is that you can’t appreciate them until you’ve reached a certain level in life. No amount of explanation can convey what it feels like to enjoy the finer things when you’ve earned them.”
“Earned being the key word,” Aunt Sarah added. “Anyone can go into debt to pretend they belong at places like this, but actually belonging, actually having the means to enjoy it without stress, that’s the real marker of success.”
“Speaking of which,” Jessica said, “Dad, didn’t you say you were considering buying a vacation property down here? Somewhere we could use for family gatherings?”
“I’ve been looking,” Harold admitted. “But the real estate prices on this stretch of coast are astronomical. We’re talking multi-million-dollar properties for anything decent.”
“What about the resort itself?” my cousin Brandon asked. “Does anyone know who owns it? Might be a good investment opportunity.”
“Some investment group, probably,” Harold said dismissively. “These luxury resorts are usually owned by corporations or wealthy families. Not the kind of thing individual investors can get into.”
I took a sip of water.
“It would be nice to have a place like this to call our own,” Mom used, “somewhere the family could gather without having to pay these exorbitant rates. Though I suppose that’s just a fantasy. This level of property is beyond most people’s reach.”
“Beyond some people’s reach,” Aunt Sarah corrected with a pointed look around the table. “Others of us are doing quite well, thank you very much.”
The conversation shifted to their various financial successes: Uncle Harold’s latest business deal, Aunt Sarah’s stock portfolio, Jessica’s promotion, Brandon’s new condo in Charlotte.
And then, inevitably, it shifted to me.
“So, Emily,” Uncle Harold said with the kind of forced joviality people use when they’re about to make someone uncomfortable. “Still living in that studio apartment?”
“One bedroom, actually,” I corrected mildly.
“One bedroom, of course. And still driving that old Honda.”
“It’s reliable.”
“Reliable?” he repeated with a chuckle. “That’s one way to look at it. I suppose when you’re on a budget, reliability matters more than comfort or style.”
“Harold,” Aunt Carol said softly.
“Maybe. I’m just being realistic,” he interrupted. “Emily is what, 30 years old now?”
“29,” I said.
“29, right. At 29, most people in this family have established themselves. Good jobs, nice homes, the beginnings of real wealth. But Emily here is still in an entry-level position, still renting, still driving a car that’s probably older than some of the staff here.”
“It’s a different path,” Aunt Carol tried again.
“It’s a lower path,” Aunt Sarah said bluntly. “And there’s nothing wrong with that. Not everyone can be successful. Someone has to be average.”
Mom nodded slowly.
“I’ve accepted that Emily isn’t going to reach the heights we hoped for. She’s content with less, and that’s… that’s fine. Different people have different capacities.”