Robert Carter was a regional sales manager at NorthStar, fifty-eight years old, perpetually aggrieved, and deeply committed to the theater of success. His entire existence was a performance for a crowd that, in truth, barely cared. He leased luxury cars he couldn’t afford, paid for a country club membership with revolving credit, wore designer watches bought on installment plans, and dropped names in conversation like breadcrumbs leading toward the life he believed he deserved.
My mother, Elaine, was cut from the same fabric, only sharper. She had once, according to old photographs, been beautiful in a soft and unguarded way. But years of chasing status had made her hard around the edges. She evaluated people instantly—by handbag, by neighborhood, by accent, by school district, by whether their shoes looked expensive enough to justify her interest. Her small talk was social warfare dressed in lipstick.
And then there was my younger brother, Tyler. Two years younger. Favorite son. Golden child. The proof, according to my parents, that they had done at least one thing right.