Granted, it’s a white t-shirt and jeans, hardly the formal dress code they enforce. Yeah, they won’t be happy with how I look. But that’s on them. I know why I’m here tonight. I know how this will go. So when they reject me, they may as well reject all of me.
I rap on the enormous arched door, then stand back waiting, thumbs hooked in my faded jeans pockets.
The Whitlock mansion is gargantuan and ridiculous. It towers above me in all of its glory, white columns on either side of the brick porch. This type of ostentatious display of wealth is unusual for the Midwest, but my parents are originally from the East Coast, so maybe that’s where they get their over-the-top sensibilities.
My mother opens the door, immaculately dressed in a Saint John’s suit with her signature pearls around her neck, and eyes me.
I second-guess my decision to have dressed so casually, but it’s my armor for tonight—I may as well completely lean into my rebel persona. I’ve never been able to fit into the mold of the perfect Whitlock, so why not be the direct opposite?
“Jacob,” she says finally, leaning forward and kissing my cheek. A faint floral scent wafts towards me—her standby perfume.
“Mother.” I endure the kiss and then take a step backwards to give her more personal space. She’s not one for excessive displays of affection.
“You’re late.”
“I know.” I bite down the ingrained compulsion to say I’m sorry. I’ve never been good enough and never will be, but I refuse to apologize today. If I do, I’ll never be able to say what I’ve come here to say.
“Why you insist on wearing that horrible thing, I’ll never understand.”
My mother frowns at the stud earring in my ear as she turns away from me, stepping into the cavernous marble foyer. There it is—the first judgment lodged against me. A pebble in my shoe: small enough to ignore for now, but just give it time. Instead of responding, I inhale deeply, following her into the lion’s den.
To our left, a grand staircase with golden balusters winds upwards (I only learned what “baluster” meant when my mother and my brother Wyatt argued about real estate), but we bypass it on the way to the formal dining room marked by wide-open double doors. Even after all this time, the extravagant decor still discomforts me—the Persian rugs and heavy matching draperies are smothering in their excess. Crystal goblets and ornate silverware fit for a royal family rest on top of the stiff jacquard tablecloth.
Nothing about this place sits right—it’s the antithesis of me. Even growing up, I always felt like an imposter, never fitting into the one place I was supposed to call home. How did my brothersmake it look so fucking easy? The searing shame of being the only one that didn’t measure up is a direct sock to my gut.
At the head of the table, my father sits on a walnut chair upholstered in red velvet, with my brothers Sterling and Wyatt on either side of him. Psychologists would have a field day with that one.
Unsurprisingly, my brothers are on time. Sterling, my oldest brother, raises his eyebrows at me as he swallows a bite of his salad. He’s a cardiothoracic surgeon at Blackwell Hospital who acts like he rules the operating room and the staff.
If there were a perfect Whitlock son, Sterling would be the shining example. For so long I tried to follow in his footsteps, and it took me over two decades to realize that I would never be able to. I just need to accept that.
Wyatt, the member of the family I’m probably closest to, is the youngest partner in a prestigious law firm. While he’s not as flashy as Sterling, he’s just as impressive. I can’t recall the last time we met up, but that’s not unusual, he’s a workaholic. As usual, he looks incredibly stylish in his tailored navy double-breasted suit and pink floral pocket square. Winking at me, he stabs half-heartedly at a tomato.
In one snapshot, you can see the difference between me and them—Sterling and Wyatt, groomed to a shine, every hair in place, every spot on their resume perfect. I’m the surprise baby and the perpetual disgrace, always arriving late and never meeting expectations. Little do they know that I’m no longer even on the same train tracks as the rest of them–I’m headed for a completely different destination.
The wrong one, according to them. But at least I chose it.
My silver-haired father looks up from his plate, his gray eyes piercing my own. Those eyes are apparently the only thing I inherited from him.
“Jacob, you’re late,” my father says. Wyatt has now busied himself with the lettuce on his plate, while Sterling has an amused look on his face, as if my arrival heralds the beginning of the entertainment portion of the evening. While my brothers are very different in temperament, in looks they both take after my father, with their lighter hair color and straight aristocratic noses.
“Yup.” Normally, I automatically match their formal tone, but tonight, I refuse to don the mask that I typically wear with them. Why try to pretend to be someone else when I’ll never measure up anyway?
I sit next to Wyatt and whip a white cloth napkin onto my lap. For all my faults, I have excellent table manners. "But it seems like you're enjoying the salad course anyway." I’m unable to keep the slight snark out of my words.
“We started without you because you’re never punctual,” my father continues, ignoring my tone. His pastime is enumerating everything I’m doing wrong, and the list is extensive. Even at twenty-seven, the unrelenting shame that I was unable to meet his standards still burns through me.
I guess some things you never outgrow.
Out loud, I say, “Traffic,” once again sidestepping the apology that keeps bubbling to my lips.
“How’s med school?” Sterling asks in his pompous voice. I’m sure he’s relishing his obvious superiority in our shared field, and I don’t even bother to suppress my eyeroll.
“It’s med school.” I was hoping to make it to the dessert course before dropping the bomb that I brought with me tonight, but it’s not looking likely.
“You’re pretty late in selecting a specialty,” my father says, his salad knife pointed at me. Maybe he's tempted to poke me with it, right alongside his relentless onslaught. “How are you still undecided?”
“Jake’s super indecisive,” Sterling says. “You know how long it took for him to decide on a college major.”
