He was thirty-two by then and still looked like a man whose entire personality had been built around a future that never fully materialized. Too much expensive casualness. Not enough inner architecture. The California degree had turned into a string of vague consulting roles, then into a made-up management title under Richard’s failing company. He still carried himself like a success in temporary disguise.
“So the prodigal daughter returns,” he said, smiling with all his teeth. “Here to beg?”
“I was invited.”
He laughed. “Sure.”
I might once have wasted energy defending myself. Not anymore.
He glanced at the box in my hands. “Word of advice? Don’t embarrass yourself. Nobody here cares about you.”
I let the silence sit between us just long enough to make him aware he had miscalculated.
“Then nobody should mind if I stay.”
His smile shifted.
He moved closer, lowering his voice. “Linda told everyone you’ve been struggling. That you’ve never really landed on your feet. Just so you know what room you’re walking into.”
There it was. The narrative.
The irresponsible daughter. The drifter. The woman who had thrown away support and could not sustain herself.