As I entered the Harrington mansion, ushered through the side entrance like a mere delivery man, I found myself in a lavish hallway adorned with art that probably cost more than my small home. The walls were lined with portraits of ancestors, each exuding an air of generational wealth. I half-expected someone to hand me a tray to pass hors d’oeuvres. Instead, my son met me in the hallway, his expression a mix of relief and anxiety.
“Dad, glad you could make it,” he said, his eyes darting nervously toward the dining room. The room was a spectacle of opulence, with a chandelier casting warm light over a table set with fine china and crystal glasses. I could hear the murmur of conversation, polite and restrained, coming from within.
“Let’s play it cool,” he whispered, as if I might suddenly start discussing stocks and bonds or, heaven forbid, the weather, at this elite dinner. I nodded, more to reassure him than to agree with his unspoken assumption that I wasn’t up to the task.
