Especially not my child.
My younger brother, Daniel, lived in Westfield, New Jersey, with his wife, Victoria.
Daniel worked in commercial real estate and business development. He liked expensive watches, carefully tailored jackets, and talking about investments over glasses of wine.
Victoria liked everything to look perfect.
Her house always looked ready for a magazine photographer. Every holiday had a color scheme. Every dinner had printed place cards.
She wasn’t openly cruel in the way people usually imagine cruelty.
She was worse in a quieter way.
She could make someone feel unwelcome without ever raising her voice.
For years, she’d made little comments about my restaurant.
« Still working those crazy kitchen hours, Mark? »
« I don’t understand how you deal with smelling like food all day. »
« Doesn’t it get exhausting doing everything yourself? »
She usually said those things with a smile.
I usually ignored them.
My restaurant, The Mercer Table, wasn’t glamorous. I’d spent twelve years building it from a struggling neighborhood business into a respected Manhattan restaurant with a loyal following.
