Part 1: The Price Tag of Affection
The dining room of my parents’ house always felt airless, heavy with the oppressive scent of Elaine’s expensive, musky perfume and the rich, greasy aroma of pot roast. It was a room designed for performances, not family dinners. The mahogany table was polished to a mirror shine, the silver cutlery meticulously aligned, and the seating arrangement strictly enforced. Robert, my father, sat at the head. Elaine, my mother, sat at his right hand. Madison, my younger sister, sat opposite her.
And I, Hannah, sat at the far end, geographically and emotionally isolated, playing my designated role as the audience to their perfection.
I was twenty-six years old, wearing a sensible blouse from a mid-tier department store, exhausted from a fifty-hour work week at a mid-level corporate strategy firm. Madison was twenty-four, wearing a designer sundress, glowing with the manicured radiance of a woman who had never been told “no” in her entire life. She had recently gotten engaged to Greg, a man whose primary personality trait was his trust fund.
