I slow my car to a crawl as I approach my parents’ Buckhead driveway, my fingers tightening around the steering wheel.

Six months. It’s been six months since I last subjected myself to this particular form of torture.

The brick colonial looks exactly the same—immaculate landscaping, pristine shutters, and that overwhelming sense of judgment radiating from every window. Taking a deep breath, I park behind my father’s Mercedes and check my reflection in the rearview mirror. Perfect makeup, not a hair out of place. The armor is secure.

Inside, the foyer smells of furniture polish and my mother’s expensive perfume. I follow the sounds of bustling activity to the dining room, where Eleanor Walker fusses over the placement of sterling‑silver serving spoons.

“Celeste, you’re here,” she says, glancing up briefly. Not a hug, not even a proper greeting. Just acknowledgment of my existence. “Would you put the water glasses out? Your father’s almost done with the brisket.”

I nod and move toward the china cabinet, taking in the room as I do. Family photos line the walnut sideboard—mostly Preston in various poses of achievement. Preston at Harvard graduation. Preston receiving some finance award. Preston shaking hands with the mayor. There’s exactly one photo of me, tucked in the corner, from high school graduation.

Dad appears from the kitchen, carving knife in hand, his face flushed with pride. “Sunday brisket’s almost ready,” he announces—not directly addressing me. He’s wearing his “Kiss the Cook” apron, a Father’s Day gift from Preston years ago.

“Smells wonderful,” I lie. Arthur Walker’s brisket is notoriously dry, a family tradition no one dares mention.

Mom circles the table a third time, adjusting the napkins. “Preston should be here any minute. He texted that he’s running a bit late—something about a call with Tokyo.”

Of course. Preston is allowed to be late. The golden boy’s time is valuable.

As if summoned by his name, the front door swings open, and Preston’s booming voice fills the house. “Hello, family.” He strides into the dining room wearing a tailored navy suit that probably cost more than my first month’s rent. Even on Sunday, he dresses like he’s heading to a board meeting.

Mom’s face lights up. “There he is.” She rushes to hug him while Dad claps him on the shoulder.

“Sorry I’m late,” Preston says, loosening his tie. “Had to wrap up some details on that Kensington acquisition.”

Dad beams. “That’s my boy. Always closing deals.”

We settle around the table—Dad at the head, Mom to his right, Preston to his left, and me facing an empty wall. Dad attacks his brisket with the carving knife while Mom passes dishes with the precision of someone who’s hosted a thousand Sunday dinners.

“So, Preston,” Dad says, serving him the best cut, “how’s life treating Atlanta’s financial wunderkind?”

Preston laughs, accepting the plate with a nod. “Can’t complain. Just closed another round of funding. Eight figures.”

He takes a bite of brisket, chewing thoughtfully. “Actually, I’ve been looking at some real estate.”

Mom perks up. “Oh? Where?”

“West Paces. There’s a modern place just listed—5.2 million. Floor‑to‑ceiling windows. Floating staircase. The works.” He gestures with his fork. “Perfect bachelor pad.”

Dad whistles low. “That’s prime territory.”

“I’ve got a viewing on Tuesday,” Preston says, cutting into his meat. “Should be able to make an offer by the end of the week.”

Mom and Dad exchange proud glances. I push food around my plate, the dry brisket sticking in my throat.

“How about you, Celeste?” Mom asks, almost as an afterthought. “How’s that little online shop of yours?”

I take a sip of water. “Actually, I’ve been house‑hunting too.”

The silence lasts exactly two seconds before all three of them burst into laughter.

“Good one, sis,” Preston says, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

Dad’s face shifts from amusement to concern. “Your little online store is cute, Celeste, but it’s a hobby. Time for a real job.”

“Arthur,” Mom murmurs, but there’s no real protest in her voice.

Preston leans back in his chair, the smug smirk I’ve known my entire life firmly in place. “Stick to your trinkets, sis. Leave the big moves to the adults.”

I say nothing, my face carefully blank.

“In fact,” Preston continues, reaching for his wine, “I’m looking at pouring capital into a new e‑commerce player—Modern Hearth. That’s the future. They’re going to crush all the little hobby stores.”

The memory hits without warning—me at twenty, clutching a five‑page business plan I’d spent weeks perfecting, standing nervously in Dad’s study. “What do you think?” I’d asked, hope ballooning in my chest. Dad had skimmed it for thirty seconds before patting my head. “Cute, sweetheart. Meanwhile, Preston just landed Goldman Sachs.”

That night, I’d made a silent vow: never to share my dreams with them again. What followed were years of cold garage nights at 2am, packing boxes myself. The crushing blow of losing my $50,000 life savings to a supplier who disappeared overnight. Working three separate jobs to rebuild while maintaining the fiction that my business was just a “cute side project.”

Back in the present, Mom pushes a store‑bought pecan pie toward me. “Have some dessert, dear. You’re looking thin.”

I smile—the shield I built years ago firmly in place. The smile doesn’t reach my eyes, but they never notice. They never do. If they only knew that The Perennial House cleared $35 million last year. That the “trinkets” Preston mocks are featured in design magazines and celebrity homes. That my “hobby” employs forty‑seven people who actually respect me.

“I should get going,” I say, standing up. “Work tomorrow.”

Preston snorts. “Playing store. Meanwhile, we’ll be talking real business.”

Mom follows me to the door, pressing a foil‑wrapped package into my hands. “Leftovers. Since you probably don’t cook much.”

I accept them with the same practiced smile, say the expected pleasantries, and escape to my car. My hands tremble slightly on the steering wheel as I pull away from their house. For the first time in years, something inside me shifts—a clarity I haven’t allowed myself before.

“Enough,” I whisper to the empty car.

I reach for my phone and dial Reese.

“How was family dinner?” His familiar voice asks. No preamble needed.

“Preston wants to buy a house on West Paces. 5.2 million.”

Reese is silent for a moment. “And?”

“I want it.”

The words taste like freedom.

“The house?”

“Yes. And everything else they think I can’t have.”

I can hear his smile through the phone. “It’s about time.”

“It’s time they learned what trinkets can build,” I say, ending the call as the road ahead opens up before me.