Page 2 of Colt

Instead, I sip my wine and stay quiet. Mostly because I don’t have an answer to the inevitable question Mom and Dad will ask: If I don’t want to work at Prestige, where do I want to work?

What do I want to do if I no longer want a career in PE? I’ve been passed over by five private equity firms since I graduated from business school back in May. My professors and classmates just made it seem like PE was the ticket to an exciting and lucrative career. Yes, I was “only” gunning for a position in marketing instead of those income-producing seats everyone kept mentioning during my interview. But marketing jobs still pay very well in the sector.

While I do want that kind of high-paying career—being financially independent is super important to me—I’ve realized I’d be miserable cooped up in an office like Prestige’s, working for people who clearly don’t respect me.

My youngest brother, Andrew, a high school sophomore, doesn’t say anything. He just yawns, feet up in the recliner, arm bent behind his head. He’s been watching ESPN since I arrived an hour ago.

I keep turning over the meatballs while turning over a familiar question in my head: Why am I the only one in the kitchen helping Mom with dinner? Didn’t I have a long day too? Don’t I get to relax too?

But that’s a road of eldest (and only) daughter problems that leads nowhere. So I try my best to ignore the familiar flame of anger that burns oh so brightly in my chest. I tilt my head to one side, then the other, hoping to relieve the tension in my neck.

This is how it’s always been in our family: women in the kitchen, men on the couch. It will be different in my house when, God willing, I have a family of my own. But here, double standards and rigid gender roles are just a fact of life.

Dad sniffs at the air. Expecting him to tell us how good the house smells, I feel my heart twist when he makes a face instead.

“Michelle, those meatballs aren’t turkey, are they?”

I glance at Mom, who’s busy sliding the garlic bread into the oven. “What’s that?”

“The meatballs—they don’t smell like the beef ones I like.”

Whew, that has me holding the tongs in a death grip. I don’t know why Dad gets me so riled up.

That’s a lie. He gets you riled up because he can be rude and selfish and completely ignorant of your mother’s needs. And then she’s rude to you because you’re the only one who cares enough to talk to her.

“Kenny,” she says. “I worked hard on these. Your cardiologist said⁠—”

“Eating beef once in a while isn’t going to kill anyone.”

I grab my wine. “It could kill you, actually.”

“Fine. I just won’t eat, then.” He’s pouting.

“Dad, they’re going to be delicious,” I try. “You won’t even be able to tell.”

“I’ll be able to tell.”

“Kenny,” Mom says. “Just try them. I bet you’ll⁠—”

“Absolutely not.”

“Are you kidding?” She raises her voice, making my stomach clench. Please, God, not another fight. “You’re acting like a five-year-old. If you want to stay alive⁠—”

“Stop with the hysterics.” Dad rolls his eyes. “I’ll be fine.”

Mom sets down her wineglass with a loud clink and lets out a mirthless laugh. “We’ll see about that.”

“So you want me to die,” Dad snaps.

Mom rolls her eyes. “What? That makes no sense.”

“Meatballs made with some kind of bullshit health stuff don’t make sense.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Mom replies.

“I work twelve-hour days for this family,” he shoots back. “There’s nothing ridiculous about that.”

“Well, I think they smell delicious, Mom.” I clear my throat. “The meatballs.”