Brooke had been going through a profound emotional transition since her sophomore year of college. The primary casualty of these transitions was always other people’s capital.
Standing in my quiet kitchen, I looked down at Mom’s text message again.
Call your guy.
My thumbs hovered over the glass screen. I didn’t overthink it. I didn’t draft a diplomatic response. I typed the truth.
My guy doesn’t like you.
I hit send.
“Dad, what? Did you just send that? That is unbelievably cold.”
“Apparently,” I replied, tossing the phone onto the granite counter, “so is your grandmother’s living room.”
The caller ID flashed Mom.
I let it ring three times, establishing a deliberate tempo, before picking up. “Hello, Robert,” I answered, using my formal business voice.
“This is not a humorous situation, Rupert,” Mom snapped, her voice tight with panic.
“I respectfully disagree. The comedic timing is actually flawless.”
