Patricia leaned closer.
“First grade is for people who get involved. You can still help with your luggage.”
The gate worker looked at me.
Her eyes stopped on my name.
Or did she recognize
The chef.
Pictures of snowmobiles.
And a family announcement that Mason will soon join my father’s investment firm as a “future partner.”
I was only invited at the last minute.
Invited.
Undesirable.
Three days earlier, Patricia called and sighed:
“Your father insists that you come. Just please don’t make our lives difficult, talking about your little professional problems.”
My “professional problems” were two years after my mother’s death.
The years I sold my apartment.
I stopped going to family dinners.
And I stopped correcting people when they assumed I ran out of money.
During the briefing, Patricia received four first-class boarding passes from the agent.
Then she handed me mine.
31B.
The economy.
I looked at her.
