The table had gone quiet.
Everyone either staring at me with pity or carefully avoiding eye contact.
“The important thing,” Mom continued, “is that we don’t make Emily feel bad about her limitations. She’s doing the best she can with what she has.”
I set down my fork carefully.
“That’s very understanding of you,” I said quietly.
“We’re family,” Mom said warmly. “We support each other regardless of success level. Even if you can’t contribute financially to family gatherings like this, your presence still means something.”
“Though, speaking of contribution,” Aunt Sarah said, “we should probably discuss how we’re splitting the costs for this weekend. The rooms, the meals, the activities we have planned.”
“Obviously, we’ll divide it among those who can afford it,” Mom said quickly. “Emily, don’t worry about it. We’ll cover your share.”
“That’s not necessary,” I started to say.
“Please,” Uncle Harold interrupted. “We know you’re struggling. Let us help. That’s what family does.”
“I’m not struggling,” I said calmly.
“Emily, honey,” Mom said with gentle condescension. “We’ve seen your apartment. We know what you drive. We understand your salary can’t be very impressive. There’s no shame in accepting help.”
“I don’t need help,” I said.
“Pride,” Aunt Sarah said sadly. “That’s the problem with young people today. Too proud to accept reality.”
I could feel the familiar frustration building.
The same conversation we’d had in different forms for years.
No matter what I said, they’d already decided who I was.
“You don’t belong at this level,” Mom said finally, her voice taking on a harder edge. “And I don’t mean that cruy, Emily. I mean it realistically. This resort, this lifestyle, these experiences, they’re for people who’ve earned them.”
“You haven’t. Not yet. Maybe someday, if you work hard and make better choices, you’ll get there. But right now, you’re out of your depth.”
“She should stick to motel,” Aunt Sarah agreed. “Nothing wrong with motel. They’re perfectly adequate for people in Emily’s situation.”
The entire restaurant seemed to have gone quiet, though that was probably my imagination.
Still, I was aware of people at nearby tables glancing our way.
“You know what?” I said, starting to stand. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Miss Thompson.”
I turned to find Richard Chin, the resort’s director, standing beside our table.
Richard was 58, had managed luxury properties around the world, and had been my first major hire when I bought Clearwater Bay 3 years ago.