Period.
It’s been this way for as long as I can remember.
Sunday mornings, our family meets at Saint Sebastian’s for ten a.m. mass, and from there, we return to my parents' house for brunch.
I say house with the utmost modesty.
My parents live on West 57th Street, smack dab in the middle of NoHo, in a home my father had custom-built for my mother. While still engaged, she insisted on raising their future children in ahouse, not an apartment, and had been adamant about finding a brownstone over a penthouse.
My father had just landed his first half-a-billion dollar contract and told the finest architects New York had to offer my mother’s vision and that the sky was the limit.
After finding an available building to purchase on a prestigious Manhattan street, they promptly gutted and rebuilt it into a place that looked like a charming, upscale brownstone from the front, when in reality, it was a three-story mansion in plain sight.
It was ridiculous, and still, it was home.
And every Sunday, when I walk through the French door entry, a sense of contentment washes over me.
Nostalgia mixed with comfort.
That is, until my brother arrives.
Joseph is the reason I dread every family brunch. It’s always something with him, and without fail, he’ll be there to whisper idiotic ideas in father’s ear.
My heart shatters every time I think about our strained relationship and how things used to be.
Often, I wonder at what point he stopped thinking of me as a sister and started thinking of me as an enemy. I’ve never wanted any of the things heassumesI want.
My father’s business.
Our family’s wealth.
Recognition and fame.
The only thing I’ve ever wanted is the love of my family, and, one day, a great love for myself.
“Hello, baby sister,” he greets, singsonging through a sneer. It's an act he puts on in front of our parents. Pretending as though he’s a doting big brother.
He bends down, leveling himself to where I sit, and presses his lips to the top of my head.
Cecilia and I share a look.
“I see you’ve brought the help along with you again,” he says, pulling his linen napkin into his lap as he sits. His eyes meet mine, and behind them, I can see the malice.
“Joseph,” my mother chastises. “Cecilia has been with us for more than a decade—she’s family. Treat her as such.”
“As have others we’ve had on payroll for longer, yet I don’t see them sitting with us.”
“Joseph, that’s enough. Show some respect,” my father interjects. He glares at Joseph, and Joseph glares at me.
Sighing, I add this to the long list of times my father has taken my side, giving Joseph more ammunition for his disdain.
“How has your week been, Sunshine?”
Offering him a tight smile, I take in the way he holds my mother’s hand on top of the table while awaiting my answer, genuinely wanting to hear about my week.
From the corner of my eye, my brother pretends not to notice as he cuts into his quiche.
“It’s been fine. Since we’re creating a fully in-house space for authors, I hired another agent to join my team, and a fabulous editor. We received more than a hundred and fifty submissions between Wednesday afternoon and Friday morning. It’s thrilling to watch something you started from nothing hit a patch of success.”
