The dining room had been transformed into what looked like a magazine spread. Vanessa had moved our grandmother’s antique candlesticks to make room for her equipment, relocated the family photos to create better angles, and even changed out the napkins for ones that “photograph better” under her lighting setup. She directed her cameraman around the table like she was shooting a commercial, which in many ways she was.

Patricia bustled around her eldest daughter, adjusting and re-adjusting everything to meet Vanessa’s standard. The turkey that had been cooling for the perfect serving temperature was now under heat lamps to maintain its appearance for the cameras. The side dishes were rearranged three times to create more visual appeal. Even the flowers had been replaced with a more photogenic arrangement that Vanessa had brought from Portland.

I had learned long ago not to comment on these productions. Growing up, I’d made the mistake of pointing out the absurdity more than once, only to be met with lectures about “supporting family” and “understanding that some people have bigger dreams than others.” The implication was always clear: I was small-minded for not appreciating Vanessa’s vision, jealous of her success, threatened by her ambition.