20.0 #2
My mother's voice cut through. "You've been quieter lately," she said. "Is everything all right?"
"I'm fine."
She tilted her head. "That's never true when people say it like that."
My father chuckled. "Don't push him, honey. He's got enough on his plate."
I almost said you have no idea but swallowed it back.
Margot reached for her glass, eyes on me. "He's been running himself thin. The campaign's taking more out of him than he admits."
"Emotion makes you sloppy," my father said. "That's the part people never understand. You start feeling too much, and the minute something slips, the sharks smell it."
He said it like it was gospel.
I forced a small laugh. "Yeah. Wouldn't want to disappoint the sharks."
My mother smiled, the kind of smile that softened nothing. "You always did have a bleeding heart. Remember the stray dog? You cried for days when it died."
Margot chuckled politely. "A sensitive kid, huh?"
I looked down at my plate, jaw tightening around the fork. "Yeah," I said evenly. "I remember."
But it wasn't just a stray dog.
It was mine.
Buzz had been a neighborhood dog. Golden fur, mismatched eyes, too much energy. I used to sneak him inside when my parents were out late—he'd curl at the foot of my bed, tail thumping against the comforter.
I'd gotten in trouble at school one day. Nothing major—shoving match with another boy who said something slick. But the Whitmore name traveled faster than any truth. By the next afternoon, I heard my teacher whispering to another parent in the pickup line about Mr. Whitmore's son being "a handful."
I didn't think much of it. My father did.
He came home that night already angry, drunk enough for it to show. The kind of drunk that smelled like Scotch and disappointment. He said I'd made a mockery of him—that a Whitmore didn't cause scenes, didn't embarrass the family name at a school full of donors and senators' children.
When I tried to apologize, he didn't want to hear it. He just muttered something about "learning consequences."
I remember the sound more than anything. The pop, the yelp, the silence after.
Buzz didn't even get a grave.
The next morning, my mother told me to stop crying before breakfast because my eyes were puffy, and people would notice.
I never cried again. Not where anyone could see.
And it didn't stop at Buzz.
When I was twelve and brought home a C on a history test, my father had the housekeeper strip my bed. Said comfort was for people who earned it. I slept on a box spring for six months until my report card came back clean.
At sixteen, it was worse.
We hosted a fundraiser—someone asked what kind of leader I wanted to be when I grew up. I said I didn't know.
My father smiled for the cameras. Later, he found me near the back of the house, said I'd embarrassed him.
Before I could answer, he opened the terrace door and shoved me outside—straight into a thunderstorm.
"Maybe some humility will help you figure it out," he said, and closed the door.
I remember the rain soaking through my suit, the laughter spilling from the dining room, the smell of steak and cigars carried on the wind.
I pressed my hand to the glass, watching him raise another toast like nothing had happened.
He didn't let me back in until the last guest had gone. When he did, he just said, "Next time, have a better answer."
And by college, I'd learned the pattern: misstep, punishment, silence.
That was the rhythm I grew up on—fear dressed up as order.
Now, decades later, sitting across from him at my own table, it was moments like these where I could still hear that voice under his breath..
They laughed about it—like I'd grown out of something.
And maybe I had. Just not in the way they thought.
The conversation had moved on without me — Margot and my mother now debating press releases about a childcare initiative, of all things.
My father caught me drifting and smirked. "Lost in thought?"
I swallowed, steadying my tone. "Just thinking how right you are."
"Oh?"
"About emotion. About losing something." I speared a piece of asparagus, let it hang for a beat. "Like that time you threw out my college offer letters because you didn't like the school I chose."
Margot laughed, not realizing. "He what?"
My father chuckled too, the way people do when they think you're exaggerating. "You make it sound worse than it was. You were indecisive. I streamlined the process."
"Right," I said. "Streamlined it."
The table laughed. I smiled like it was funny. Inside, I could still see him ripping the envelope in half, the way the edges curled in his fist. You don't get to choose something that small, he'd said. Not when I'm paying for it.
That had been the first time I realized my life wasn't mine.
"Brooks?" Margot's voice brought me back.
I blinked. "Sorry?"
"You zoned out," she said, half-smiling. "I was saying, Bryan's team wants us both at the DeLucas' dinner Wednesday night. And your mother thinks it'd be good to go over wardrobe this week — she says you're starting to look like you actually work for a living."
My mother laughed, delighted at her own cruelty. "Presentation matters."
"Of course it does," I said. My voice didn't sound like mine.
Margot reached under the table, brushing her hand against my knee. It was meant to look affectionate. It felt like a reminder.
I looked at her, really looked. The painted composure, the eyes always scanning for a camera.
And for a moment, I saw her and my parents for what they were — three people who'd built their lives on pretending nothing ever hurt them.
The only problem was, I wasn't built that way. Not anymore.
I stared down at my plate, the food gone cold. The smell of wine, of money and performance, pressed around me like static.
For a second, my mind went somewhere else entirely.
To the small, lived-in quiet of Amira's house. The sound of cartoons bleeding from the living room, the faint smell of baby lotion and lavender detergent. The warmth that came from nothing expensive—just life happening around you.
Earlier today, sitting on her couch, I'd felt full.
The weight in my chest had felt different there—less like a burden, more like something human.
Now I sat in a room that had raised me, surrounded by everything I was supposed to want, and all I felt was hollow.
I looked at my parents, their eyes bright with ambition, their smiles built for headlines. Margot, sitting between them, polished and perfect, nodding along to my mother's monologue.
I'd known her most of my life. Our families had orbited each other for years—fundraisers, galas, summers in the Hamptons. She was what people like my parents considered safe. Predictable. A Whitmore-approved kind of woman.
But I couldn't stop thinking of Amira's laugh—the unfiltered one she tried to hide behind her hand. Or the way she tilted her head when she was trying not to argue with me. The way her curls fell across her face when she slept.
There was no performance in that house. No script.
Just something I'd been missing without even realizing it.
My father's voice broke through my thoughts. My mother nodded to whatever was said, Margot smiled, the conversation rolled on. None of them noticed I'd stopped listening.
I pushed my chair back quietly. "Excuse me."
My mother looked up, startled. "We're not finished, sweetheart."
"I'm not feeling well," I said. "Think I'll shower and call it a night."
Margot frowned, polite concern masking irritation. "You sure? We were just—"
"I'm sure."
She hesitated, searching my face, but whatever she saw there must've warned her off. I gave a small nod toward my parents, not waiting for approval, and walked away before anyone could say my name again.
The moment I stepped into the hallway, I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. The laughter behind me dulled as the bedroom door clicked shut.
In the silence that followed, I loosened my tie, touched the faint blue crayon smudge on my cuff, and thought of a little girl who'd smiled up at me like I was worth something.