There were always dishes to wash when Gladys wanted to play the role of the hardworking martyr. I rolled up my sleeves and started scrubbing plates while my father’s phone rang in the other room.
His voice changed when he answered, sounding proud and warm as he spoke to whoever was on the line. “Yes, sir, we will be there early for the family photos at six o’clock sharp.”
The phrase “family photo” felt heavy in my chest because I knew I wasn’t truly included in her vision of the family. Gladys moved closer to me at the sink and spoke in a low voice so my father wouldn’t hear.
“Your father tells people you are just working a desk job in Norfolk now,” she whispered.
I kept my hands in the soapy water and didn’t look at her. “Okay.”
“That is just his way of making your failure sound better to the neighbors,” she continued. “People in this town remember when someone gives up and comes crawling back home.”
My father was laughing in the next room while my stepmother continued to rewrite the history of my life. She tipped her chin toward me and added one final instruction.
“Do not wear anything military tonight because it will only confuse the guests,” she warned.