Brena set down her wine glass with a shaking hand. “Mom, why didn’t you tell us? We’re your family.”
Are you? I wanted to ask. Because family doesn’t spend dinner parties competing to see who can deliver the most cutting remarks about your failures.
But I maintained my composure. “Well, you seemed so certain it would never amount to anything,” I said pleasantly. “I didn’t want to get your hopes up.”
The interview concluded with footage of my home office, the same room where Kyle had sarcastically suggested I install a ramp for when my arthritis “gets worse.” The camera panned over my awards, my professional computer setup, the wall of thank-you letters from students around the world.
“This Christmas certainly took an unexpected turn,” I observed, cutting myself another slice of pie. “Anyone else want dessert?”
The silence that followed stretched like taffy. You could practically hear the gears grinding in Kyle’s head as he tried to recalculate every interaction we’d had for the past three years.
“Grandma,” Emma piped up with the brutal honesty only seven-year-olds possess. “Daddy said you were poor, but millionaires aren’t poor, right?”
Kyle’s face flushed a deep, painful red. I had to bite my lip to keep from smiling.
“No, sweetheart,” I said gently. “Millionaires are not poor. Would you like some ice cream with your pie? The expensive kind.”
Kyle cleared his throat, apparently deciding to attempt damage control. “Maggie, this is… incredible news. Why don’t we talk about how we can help you manage all of this?”
