My grandfather’s research papers lined the upstairs hall like icons while my father’s surgical awards filled a glass case that gleamed even at dusk. My Stanford diploma was nowhere to be found because my mother once told me it did not really match the aesthetic of the room.
By the time I walked into the dining room carrying a bottle of red wine, my aunt Josephine was already grading my appearance as if my clothing were a test of compliance. She asked if I was still typing code while smiling the way people do when they want witnesses to confirm they are being charming.
My father told the table that I played with computers which was not exactly saving lives, and Spencer added that his work required actual skill instead of just googling solutions. My mother laughed softly and told Spencer to be nice because she claimed not everyone could handle the pressure of real responsibility like the men in the family.