At the family barbecue the year everything finally shattered, the air felt wrong before anyone said a word. It clung to my skin in a damp, sticky film—that particular late-summer humidity that transforms linen into wet rags and makes the lake below the hill look like tarnished glass. White event tents sagged at their edges, scalloped trim fluttering weakly with each half-hearted breeze.
Somewhere under one of those tents, a string quartet sawed dutifully through Vivaldi, their tuxedo collars darkening with sweat. My parents had spent fifty thousand dollars to make this happen. There were uplights on the trees, white roses in crystal vases on every cocktail table, three different ice sculptures already melting around the edges.
The biggest sculpture was carved into the logo of Vanguard Logistics—my father’s company, his pride, his obsession. Every time I glanced at it, I could see water coursing from the carved “V” like the thing was quietly bleeding out on the buffet table. Technically, this was a celebration: forty years of Vanguard Logistics, a “garden party” for investors, clients, and friends of the family.
In reality, it was theater. Performative wealth. A carefully staged production meant to convince everyone that Vanguard was thriving, that the fleet expansion was under control, that everything was absolutely fine.
I knew better. I’d seen the actual numbers. But I wasn’t here as a consultant or an investor or even as the person who understood balance sheets better than anyone on this manicured lawn.
I was here as a prop, a body to fill space in family photos, the daughter whose presence was expected but whose voice was optional. I hovered at the periphery of the main tent, holding a glass of lukewarm water, watching the performance unfold with the detachment of someone who’d seen this show too many times. My brother Christopher stood at the center of it all, exactly where he always positioned himself.
He held court near the open bar, framed artfully by a curved arch of balloon installations in Vanguard’s corporate colors. Late afternoon sunlight caught the crisp lines of his custom suit—tailored, expensive, probably worth more than my monthly mortgage—and made the ice in his tumbler sparkle like diamonds. He laughed too loudly at something a potential client said, clapping the man on the shoulder with practiced bonhomie.
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