22. Xavier
TWENTY-TWO
XAVIER
Sloane left to face her father, and I sat in the car a long while before I did anything about mine.
My mother's text was still open on the screen. We're in the city. Brunch today. Bring your sister.
Instead of replying, I called her back.
"What are you doing in New York?" I asked.
"Xavier." Her voice was warm, but it was the calculated warmth she used for conversations where she'd already decided the outcome. "We wanted to see the city. And we wanted to see our children. Is that so strange?"
"Yes," I answered.
She let out a dismissive laugh, the sound she made whenever she planned to ignore what I'd just said. "Brunch is today. I'll text you the address. And bring your sister."
The line went dead before I could argue.
I sat alone in my car, staring at the steering wheel.
My parents weren't people I needed in my life.
I'd accepted that in increments over the years, and my last tense conversation with my mother had made it permanent.
I'd resolved that whenever I married, I might extend them an invitation, or I might not.
Either way would be fine, and either way would be their own fault.
I'd made peace with Violet. I had my career, and I had Sloane.
What my parents thought about any of it was no longer something I needed to calculate.
But my mother said bring Violet. That was the moment this stopped being about me.
Violet had gotten through her entire adult life without their support.
They never validated her writing, never backed her independence, and had spent years treating every milestone she hit as evidence of failure.
They hadn't come to her wedding. They hadn't called afterward.
As far as I knew, they hadn't spoken at all, and that silence had piled up into years of estrangement.
What did they want with her now?
I had no idea. And not knowing left me without anything I could plan around, which was the one thing my parents had always managed to do to me.
I dialed Violet. She answered on the second ring.
"Our parents are in New York," I said.
She went quiet a long moment. "Why?"
"I don't know. They demanded we meet them for brunch. They asked me to bring you."
"Why would they want me there?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "Do you want to go?"
I waited. I'd already decided that if Violet said no, I was skipping it too.
I wasn't going to sit across a table from my parents while they delivered whatever rehearsed speech they came to give if both of us weren't there to hear it.
And I wasn't going to force Violet into a room with the two people who made her feel unseen if she wasn't armored for it. It was her call.
"Sure," Violet finally answered, her voice tight. "Let's go see what they want."
I let out a long breath.
I picked her up an hour later. She was already waiting on the sidewalk when I pulled up with her trench coat buttoned tight, her bag slung over her shoulder, and her eyes set ahead.
Idling at a red light, I glanced over at her.
"You don't have to do this if you aren't ready," I reminded her. "I mean it, Violet. I'll U-turn right now."
"I know you would," she murmured, eyes on the windshield. "But I want to hear what they have to say."
"Okay," I agreed. "I'm in your corner either way."
She turned her head to look at me, the corners of her eyes shining wet, and reached over to squeeze my forearm without a word.
I drove.
The restaurant was a place my father always gravitated toward, expensive in the hushed way that required a reservation but refused to advertise the fact.
They were already seated when we walked in, side by side at a corner table.
My mother's hair was flawlessly styled, my father wore a tailored jacket, and both of their spines snapped straight the second we crossed the threshold.
Violet stalled just inside the entrance.
"Do you still want to do this?" I asked quietly.
"I'm here," she said. "I'm going to see it through."
I looked at her profile. "Whatever happens at that table, I'm on your side. Not theirs. Yours."
Her eyes filled with tears. She pressed her lips into a thin line, then threw her arms around me and hugged me hard. I wrapped my arms around her shoulders and held on.
I thought about all the years I'd sat silent at dinner tables watching them tear her down, too young and complicit to speak up, and I was glad I was standing here now and that she knew it.
We walked to the table.
My father stood briefly, and my mother's mouth curved into the practiced smile she reserved for controlled social situations.
"Xavier," my father greeted. "How have you been?"
"Fine," I answered. "Doing well."
My mother turned her attention to Violet. Her voice dropped an octave. "Violet. How have you been?"
"Fine," Violet echoed, cold. "I just got married, so things are good."
My mother gave a stiff nod. My father leaned forward. "How long did you and your new husband date before you married?"
"A year and some months," Violet answered.
"Good," my father approved. "That's good. We're happy for you."
Neither of them mentioned the wedding. Not that they hadn't been there.
Not that they hadn't been invited. Not that it had been publicized and they'd found out through the society pages.
They offered a hollow congratulations and moved on, and that radioactive absence sat right in the middle of the table, unacknowledged.
I watched my mother reach for her water glass while my father opened his menu, neither of them making eye contact.
"Why did you summon us here?" I asked.
My mother looked up, feigning shock. "Can't a mother want a pleasant lunch with her children?"
I stared at her, then shifted my gaze to Violet, who was studying her own hands on the tablecloth.
"You missed her wedding," I said, my voice dangerously calm.
"You haven't mentioned it once. You're sitting here asking about her dating timeline like this is a normal, healthy conversation.
You haven't said a single word about anything that matters.
" I kept my tone level. "Why aren't you asking the questions that count? "
My mother set her water glass down. "I wasn't invited," she defended. "I have no idea why I wasn't invited, and I didn't want to bring it up because I wanted this to be a peaceful brunch."
"This isn't going to be a peaceful brunch," I informed her. "Because you've never been a peaceful mother to your daughter."
She stared at me, her chin jerking back. "And what would you have me do, Xavier? It hasn't been easy, raising a daughter who refuses to follow any direction."
"What the hell are you talking about?" I snapped.
"What's wrong with Violet? She didn't follow the blueprint you mapped out for her.
She chose to live her own life. She chose to be a writer.
She chose a career that fulfills her. She chose to be a person.
" My voice was rising, and I made no effort to control it.
"Did you give birth to a daughter, or did you try to manufacture a puppet? "
My mother's face went rigid. "Why are you speaking to me like this—"
"Because I've spent my whole life watching you tear her down," I cut in.
"Her weight. Her major. Her discipline. Her friends.
You found a flaw in every single thing she did.
Violet could never do anything good enough for your standards.
You called it wanting the best for her. What you were doing was making damn sure she never got to stand in a single room and feel comfortable in her own skin.
" I snapped my gaze to my father. "And you sat there and let it happen. "
My father cleared his throat. "We didn't fly here to fight. We came to spend time with our children."
"You don't get to fly here and demand peace," I shot back. "You don't get to demand time when you've spent decades making your children want to live as far from you as possible. You don't get to decide the past doesn't count because it's inconvenient for your brunch today."
Violet's hand came down over mine, quiet but grounding.
I stopped, sat back, and took a jagged exhale.
The table dropped into silence. My mother's eyes shone with unshed tears, and my father's gaze was fixed on the tablecloth.
Violet looked calmly between them.
"I'm a writer," she stated, her voice remarkably steady. "I know how you feel about that. I've always known. But I'm going to keep being a writer for the rest of my life, and nothing you say has ever changed that."
She took a slow breath. "I married a man who chose to take my surname.
He chose it. Because that's the kind of secure man he is.
" She turned her focus to my mother. "I came today to see if you were finally going to say something real.
I thought you flew here to apologize. To ask for my forgiveness.
To ask why you weren't invited to the wedding.
But you didn't do a single one of those things, and sitting here listening to you pretend none of it happened isn't something I'm willing to do.
" She glanced at me. "Xavier, if you're ready to leave—"
My mother's voice cracked, unsteady for the first time. "Why didn't you invite us, Violet? Please, tell us."
Violet stared at her.
"Because of the mother you've always been," she answered.
"How was I supposed to share the news that I was getting married?
You spent decades telling me to lose weight, to dress a specific way, to land a specific outcome.
When I graduated, you were disappointed.
When I started writing, you called it a hobby.
When I built a successful career from it, you ignored it.
I couldn't invite you because I knew you'd find a flaw in my dress.
You'd make a comment about my weight. You'd say something toxic, and I couldn't allow that.
Not on that day." Her voice broke, but she pushed through.