The room seemed to shrink around us as the man in the suit strode confidently toward our table. His presence was magnetic, commanding attention like a magnet draws iron filings. The clatter of cutlery against plates ceased, and a hush fell over the restaurant as all eyes trailed him, curiosity piqued.
“Ms. Williams,” he announced with a voice that resonated through the air like an orchestral note, refined yet powerful. “Your helicopter is ready.”
Every gaze snapped to me, the newly ‘disowned’ daughter, now apparently someone who could afford a helicopter ride. I felt the eyes of my family piercing through me, shocked, confused, their expressions frozen in a tableau of disbelief. The facade they had so carefully crafted of me as the black sheep, the failure, was crumbling.
