We sat down at the dining room table, and my mother clasped her hands like she was about to say grace even though we hadn’t done that in years.
“Clara has wonderful news,” she announced.
Clara didn’t just share news. She performed it.
She stood up and handed out papers—actual printed charts and graphs like she was pitching to venture capitalists instead of her family over meatloaf. She had a presentation: projected revenue streams, market analysis, “growth strategy.” Michael nodded at all the right places like a supportive accessory.
“I’ve learned from my mistakes,” Clara said, eyes shining with that dangerous mix of desperation and delusion I’d seen before. “This time, I’ve got everything figured out. I just need capital for initial development and marketing.”
The word capital landed heavy on my tongue, like metal.
“The projections show we could double our investment within two years,” Michael added.
Then the room shifted.
My parents and my sister and my brother-in-law all turned and looked at me with the same expression—expectant, focused, like they’d been waiting for me to arrive so they could open a locked door.