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“I might,” I say, shrugging. “It depends on who you invited and whether I feel like seeing them. If you’re trying to get me and Aiden back together again, don’t.”
She’s examining herself in the mirror hanging over the dresser in the guest room that used to be my bedroom, smoothing her salt and pepper bob.
“It’s not Aiden who’s coming, darling. It’s Olivier Durand.”
My eyes bulge. “Olivier Durand? You invited him over for dinner?”
“I did. Your father’s PR people think it’s a good idea.”
Anger rises up my chest, my face reddening. I’m a thirty-one-year-old woman, but my parents are still trying to run my life. Julia escaped their clutches when she got married, and our younger sister Stella wisely moved several states away. She’s now in medical school in Boston.
“I don’t make decisions based on what’s good for Dad politically,” I remind my mom.
“Oh, don’t I know it,” she scoffs.
My decision to major in social work and take a job working at a nonprofit clinic that serves the homeless has always been a sore spot for my mother. Not that I care. She’s never helped anyone unless there was something in it for her. I grew up wanting to be everything she’s not.
“I appreciate the way you guys have taken care of me,” I say, taking a page from a class I took on how to communicate with obstinate people—always open with a compliment. “But I’m not letting you dress me up like Socialite Barbie. I’ll do the dinner, because I want to thank Mr. Durand for what he did. But I’m wearing whatever I want.”
“Daphne, you won’t fit in,” Mom argues, turning to face me. “The rest of us will be dressed like civilized people and you’ll be wearing jeans with holes in them and one of your socialist T-shirts.”
“Oh, I just bought a new one that says ‘Carry Yourself With The Confidence of A Mediocre White Man.’ How about that one?”
“This is no time for joking,” my mother snaps.
“Who’s joking? It’s in the box over on that chair,” I say, pointing to the ridiculous velvet-upholstered wingback in the corner of the room.
My mom puts her fingertips on her temples, her lips pressed into a terse line.
“Our family is in the national spotlight,” she says tightly. “Just this once, this one time, can you think about your father and just be reasonable? Appropriate?”
I push back the covers and get out of bed. “There’s nothing unreasonable or inappropriate about advocating for the marginalized,” I say, annoyed. “If Dad’s embarrassed about what I stand for, that says a lot about him.”
“He’s not embarrassed by you, Daphne.”
“But you are,” I remind her. “You never fail to point out what a disappointment I am.”
“I just think you could do so much more with your life.” She sighs, exasperated.
“My work saves lives. It’s not that you want me to do more; it’s that you want me to want what you did. And I never will, Mom. I’m never marrying some rich man and planning his dinner parties while he’s out making more money. That’s not who I am.”
“It is, actually,” she says with a humorless laugh. “Your last name is Barrington.”
I take in a breath and let it back out, reminding myself what my therapist says about circular conversations. If having them accomplishes nothing and makes me feel bad, I should see the writing on the wall and walk away.
“I’ll go to dinner tonight and meet Olivier Durand,” I tell my mother. “But I have two conditions.”
“Heaven help me,” she mutters. “What do you want?”
“I’m moving back to my apartment tomorrow morning, and I’m going back to work. Once the reporters get some photos of me, the attention will die down.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “And?”
“And I want one of the news photographers let inside tonight to take a few pictures.”
“That won’t be necessary. Your father’s staff photographer will take photos and release them.”
I shake my head. “I want a news photographer, from an accredited news organization.”
“Daphne, I’m not letting one of those people into our home,” she balks.
“Why not? I’m not asking you to give them a private tour. They can take pictures of us meeting in the entryway if you want.”
“No. Your father’s staff photographer will do a better job.”
“No one wants those bullshit photos of Dad shaking this guy’s hand with a tear in his eye, Mom. Again, I know this is hard for you to understand, but not everything is about you and Dad.”
“How did I raise such an ungrateful brat?” She scowls at me. “After all I’ve done for you, this is—”
“I’m getting in the shower,” I say, cutting her off. “Do we have a deal or not?”
“Fine.” She throws up her hands. “I’ll have your father’s communications manager approve one photographer. But only one.”
“Good.”
I turn to walk into the bathroom.
