“You’re the one who looks amazing,” I told her. “Happiness suits you.”
“Come meet Tyler’s family properly,” she said, linking her arm through mine. “His parents are eager to meet all the Mitchells.”
Tyler Wellington was tall and athletic, with an easy smile that seemed sincere. His handshake was firm.
“Cassandra talks about you all the time,” he said. “Says you’re the creative genius in the family.”
“Hardly,” I laughed, surprised by this characterization. “But I do love what I do.”
“That Thompson building downtown is impressive,” he continued. “My firm looked at leasing space there until we expanded our current offices instead.”
I blinked, caught off guard by his knowledge of my work.
“You’re familiar with it?”
“Of course. It’s been in all the architectural reviews. The sustainable elements while maintaining that classic New York aesthetic. Really impressive work.”
His father joined us, a distinguished man with salt-and-pepper hair and intelligent eyes.
“Tyler tells me you’re the architect in the family. Always admired people who can create something from nothing. We just move money around.”
He laughed good-naturedly.
For a few minutes, we discussed current commercial real estate trends in Manhattan. The conversation flowed easily until I felt a presence behind me.
“Rebecca, there you are, Mr. Wellington,” said, looking over my shoulder.
I turned to face my mother, offering a smile.
“Hello, Mom.”
Her eyes moved over me critically before she nodded slightly.
“Abram, I see you found the bar already.”
She turned to the Wellingtons.
“Thomas, Margaret, have you seen the terrace? The view of the golf course at sunset is spectacular.”
And just like that, I was dismissed as she led them away.
The dinner bell rang shortly after, and guests began finding their assigned seats. I scanned the place cards looking for my name, eventually finding it at a table far from the main family section, seated with distant cousins and friends of the Wellingtons I’d never met.
As I took my seat, I overheard one of Tyler’s aunts whispering to her husband.
“I thought the brother wasn’t coming. Rebecca told Margaret he was estranged or something. Last-minute addition, I guess.”
Her husband replied with a shrug.
The waiters began serving the first course, a delicate lobster bisque with truffle oil, to everyone at my table. Then they moved to the next table and the next. I waited, assuming they were working their way around the room. But as the last table was served, my place setting remained empty.
I caught the eye of a waiter passing with water refills.
“Excuse me. I think I was missed for the first course.”
The young man looked uncomfortable.
“Let me check on that for you, sir.”
He disappeared into the kitchen, returning moments later with an even more uncomfortable expression.
“I’m sorry, sir. I need to speak with Mrs. Mitchell about this. Excuse me.”
I watched as he approached my mother, leaned down to whisper something, and gestured subtly in my direction. She shook her head firmly and whispered something back. The waiter nodded, his face flushing, and returned to the kitchen without looking my way.
Around me, people ate and chatted, while my empty place setting stood out like a sore thumb. The woman to my left gave me a curious glance, but continued her conversation with the man on her other side.
After ten minutes of this humiliation, I stood and walked directly to the main table where my parents, Cassandra, Tyler, and his parents were seated. Everyone had nearly finished their soup.
“Is there a problem with my meal?” I asked, looking directly at my mother.
She looked up, her expression perfectly composed except for the slight curl at the corner of her mouth.
“I only ordered for family,” she said, her voice low but clear enough for those nearby to hear.
The table fell silent. Tyler’s parents exchanged glances. My father suddenly became very interested in his napkin.
“Am I family or not?” I asked, keeping my voice steady despite the heat rising in my face.
“Don’t do this. Not here,” she muttered, still chewing her last spoonful of soup.
Cassandra looked stricken.
“Mom, what’s going on? Of course Abram should have dinner. There must be some mistake with the catering.”
Tyler’s mother suggested kindly, “I’m sure it can be fixed.”
My mother’s smile tightened.
“No mistake. Just a miscommunication about the final guest count.”
She signaled to a nearby waiter.
“Please bring a setting for my son. It seems we have an unexpected addition.”
The damage was done. The words unexpected addition hung in the air, making it clear I wasn’t supposed to be there.
I stood frozen for a moment, dignity warring with hurt.
“Abram, please sit down,” my father finally spoke. “The waiter will bring your food.”