The silver foil on the graduation invitation was already beginning to peel at the corners where my thumb had pressed it. I set the heavy card on the dining room table, lining it up with the dark grain of the oak. It was seven in the evening, and the light through the tall windows was turning the color of weak tea.
My mother, Valerie, did not look up from her laptop. She was sliding her sunglasses up and down her hair, using them like a plastic headband to keep her blonde layers back.
“They only gave us four tickets for the floor,” I said. “I put your name on the first line.”
I slid the silver card across the polished wood, stopping it an inch from her coffee cup.
Valerie did not touch the paper. She used the tip of her index finger to slide the invitation back toward my side of the table, her eyes still fixed on her screen.
“That is nice, Clara,” she said, her voice breezy and fast. “But you know how the algorithm is this week. If Tiffany does not post the packing video by Tuesday, the store launch is going to tank.”
On her screen, a digital brochure showed a ship with three swimming pools. The water in the picture was an impossible, bright teal, printed with blue watermarks of a cruise line logo.
“The ceremony is on May twenty-four,” I said, rubbing my left wrist where my silver watch sat. “It starts at two in the afternoon.”
“We will have to see,” Valerie said. She clicked a button to zoom in on a cabin floor plan. “Tiffany needs to shoot her resort wear line in natural light. Everything depends on the lighting.”
“Look at this engagement,” she said, turning the screen slightly. “Tiffany already has twelve thousand sign-ups for the launch notification. Your father says if we convert even three percent of those, we can clear the garage by the end of the month.”
“That is good,” I said.
“It is more than good,” she said. “It is a business. It requires absolute focus.”
