I brought the sapphire brooch, I said. I thought we could present it together on Saturday.
Arthur stopped writing.
He slowly took off his reading glasses and pulled a micro-fiber cloth from his breast pocket.
He began to clean the lenses, his breath fogging the glass before he wiped it clean.
You will not need to worry about the dinner, Olivia, he said, his voice flat.
I stood still, the cold air from the office vent blowing against my neck.
What do you mean? I asked.
Melissa called your mother last night, he said. She was very upset. She told us about the argument you two had at her boutique on Monday.
I was not at her boutique on Monday, I said. I was at Meridian until eight in the evening. I have the security logs to prove it.
Arthur put his glasses back on, adjusting the wire frames behind his ears.
We do not want any conflict on Nancy’s birthday, he said. Melissa is in a fragile place right now. She feels you are constantly judging her success.
She is lying to you, Father, I said. I have not seen her in a month.
I am not going to debate this with you, Olivia, he said, his hand resting on the ledger. We want the evening to be peaceful.
The word landed between us, heavy and cold.
So I am uninvited because of a lie? I asked.
We will give your mother the brooch from both of us, Arthur said, his tone dismissive. It is for the best.
He did not look at me again.
He did not ask for my side of the story, nor did he ask for proof of where I had been.
It was the familiar pattern, established when we were children.
If Melissa cried, the world had to stop until she was comforted.
If I protested, I was the one disturbing the peace.
