“Now, Richard,” Mrs. Whitmore said, though her tone suggested she was enjoying herself immensely. “I’m sure Elena is doing her best.”
My mother dabbed delicately at the corner of her mouth with her napkin, a gesture so familiar to me that even now it can trigger a physical response before the words arrive. She always did that before delivering a polished cruelty.
“That’s part of the problem, isn’t it?” she said lightly. “Elena’s best has always been somewhat limited.”
More laughter. Softer this time, but no less real.
I lowered my eyes to the plate in front of me and counted backward from ten in my head, the way my therapist had taught me when I first admitted that my family’s version of normal left me feeling like I had sand in my blood. Name the sensation. Slow the body. Do not let their version of you become your nervous system’s only reality. The silverware gleamed. The fish was over-seasoned. My water glass had a tiny chip near the base. I stayed inside those facts for a second longer than necessary just to keep from answering too quickly.
Mr. Whitmore, who had contributed almost nothing all evening beyond approving noises and old-man certainty, leaned in.
“What kind of software does your company work on, Elena?”
“Artificial intelligence,” I said quietly. “Machine learning applications for healthcare diagnostics.”
My brother Jason actually snorted.
“She means she writes code in her apartment and calls herself a CEO.”
