Like my father’s feelings.
Next to me sits Marilyn, my father’s assistant, who smiles at me the way you smile at a dog you’re trying not to startle. Pleasant. Careful. Like I might bolt.
She is not wrong.
“Okay,” Marilyn says brightly, tapping the screen with her pen. “We just need to adjust the caption tone. Your father wants it warmer. More personal.”
More personal.
That’s funny, because I have never felt less like a person in my life.
I nod anyway, because nodding is what I do now. My face is basically a professional nod machine.
I type. Delete. Type again. Try a few options.
A part of me, the part that used to color-code event seating charts and make thirty grown adults feel special with the right floral centerpiece, actually wakes up when I’m doing this.
The work is familiar. It’s the only part of the day that gives me a tiny, fragile spark ofI know how to do something.
I pick an image. Crop it. Adjust the layout. Choose a caption that feels like warmth without being messy.
And for five minutes, I almost forget where I am.
Almost.
Then Marilyn leans in too close. Her perfume is sharp and expensive and sterile, like a hotel lobby. Like Evan. Like a room where no one is allowed to sweat or cry or be human.
“This is great,” she says. “Perfect. Your father will love it.”
My hands keep typing, but my stomach rolls.
Because I know what comes next.
Approval. Oversight. Control.
A second person comes in, another assistant, younger, clipboard in hand, and stands by the door like she’s guarding it.
The glass wall behind Marilyn reflects all three of us.
Me sitting at the desk.
Marilyn, watching.
The assistant, waiting.
It looks like a normal work meeting.
It feels like a hostage negotiation where I’m both the negotiator and the hostage.
When I finish, Marilyn reaches over and gently closes the laptop like she’s putting a lid on danger.
Then she slides it away from me. Of course I don’t get to keep it.
“Wonderful,” she says, standing. “Lunch with Evan at one. Then your father wants you in on the PR call at two. We’re aligning messaging.”
Messaging.
There it is again.
