The text arrived at 3:47 p.m. on December 28th, slicing through the focused hum of my office like a scalpel. I was in the middle of reviewing Q4 projections with my CFO, Marcus—not my brother, but a man whose financial acumen made Wall Street weep—when my phone buzzed against the mahogany desk.
Brother: Don’t come to New Year’s Eve. My fiancé is a corporate lawyer at Davis & Polk. She can’t know about your situation.
I stared at the screen, the blue light reflecting in my glasses. My situation. That was the euphemism they had settled on, a polite wrapper for what they perceived as my spectacular failure to launch.
Before I could even process the audacity, the family group chat detonated.
Mom: Marcus is right, honey. This is important for his career.
Dad: Amanda’s from a very prestigious family. We need to make the right impression.
Sister Jenna: Maybe next year when you’ve figured things out.
