On Christmas Day, my father stood at the head of the long mahogany table in our Burlington mansion and shattered what was left of the illusion that we were a family. He held his wineglass like a gavel, stem pinched between his thick fingers, chandelier light catching on the cut crystal. The table was crowded with china and polished silver.
Outside, Vermont snow fell in slow, lazy flakes. Inside, the air felt tight enough to snap. “I’ve sold Pure Harvest Co.,” my father said, his voice as flat and cold as the lake in January.
“The buyer takes over next month.” He paused long enough for our stomachs to drop, then added, “And you get nothing. Any of you.”
My older brother Bryce’s fork clattered against his plate. “You what?” he exploded, cheeks flushing red.
Bryce always looked like a boardroom headshot brought to life. Tonight, the mask cracked. My older sister Lorie’s perfectly glossed lips parted.
“This is our legacy,” she snapped. “You can’t just sell it without consulting us.”
At the far end of the table, my younger sister Aspen stared at her phone until the words sank in. She gasped.
“My brand is done,” she whispered. Pure Harvest Co. was the backbone of her influencer persona.
Organic juice shots did not exist without our orchards. My mother, Doris, stared at the cranberry sauce on her plate, shoulders pulled in, cream cashmere sweater swallowing her. She didn’t say a word.
I sat halfway down the table, a glass of Cabernet balanced in my hand. My pulse ran wild, but my face stayed calm. I’d practiced this moment too many times to show nerves.
“You sold it?” Bryce repeated. “To who?”
“A private equity group,” my father said. “That’s all you need to know.
The deal is signed.” His tone made it clear: discussion over. Bryce slammed his palm on the table, rattling the silverware. “I’ve put ten years of my life into that company!”
“You’re not the only one,” Lorie bit out.
“You’re screwing us over for a payout?”
Aspen finally tore her gaze from her screen. “What about my product line? My followers?
Dad, you can’t do this.”
He smirked. That smug curl of his lip had been the soundtrack of my childhood. “Life isn’t fair.
You’ll all land on your feet. Or you won’t. That’s not my problem anymore.”
They were unraveling.
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