Leaning back against the elaborate booth, I allow the waiter to drape a black napkin across my lap. The color matches my pencil skirt. Maddie got a white napkin because she’s got a pair of white capris on.

It’s the little pretentious things that I don’t usually notice. Why does the color of the napkin matter when all I’m doing with it is wiping my dirty hands off?

Mama cares. Daddy cares. Hundreds of other people must care, because we’re sitting in one of the busiest restaurants in Uptown Charlotte.

It’s not the place I want to be right now. I’d rather be at my house, tucked in my king-sized bed with the duvet over my head, mourning my career alone like I did yesterday after leaving the hospital. Was it productive? Nope. But it was necessary.

Mama sets her menu on the table. “How’s the planning coming along, Elizabeth?”

“Hmm?” I ask. So consumed in my own thoughts, I wasn’t paying attention to her at all.

“The planning, for the auction? How’s it coming?”

She’s talking about the Silent Auction and dinner, an event I thought of three years ago when Hugo, one of the guys in the crew who landscapes my parent’s yard, found out his mom had cancer. She didn’t have insurance, and he and his wife, Maria, didn’t have the means to pay the massive bills. I knew they were absolutely devastated, not only by the costs, and I had to do something to help.

Hugo and Maria’s ordeal opened my eyes to how devastating it is for many families—even those with dual incomes, working at least forty hours a week—to pay for catastrophic medical expenses. Instead of using the event as a one-time fundraiser for a single family, I created a nonprofit to be able to help more families pay for medical care. The event was very well-received, thanks to the amazing event-planning company who took care of all the details. As someone who’d never planned a huge event before, I knew I had to hand it off. My parents and their friends really helped with the word of mouth. It’s become one of the biggest events in, raising almost $500,000 over the last two years. We’ve been able to help multiple families with that money.

“Oh, good, I guess. I’m hands-off this year. Too much going on. Ariana and her crew are taking care of the details again.”

“Are you getting that same band from last year?” Maddie asks. “They were so good. Trent loved them.”

I make a mental note to make sure Ariana did not book the same band. If Trent loved them, I don’t want them back.

“Or maybe Austin’s band?” Maddie suggests.

“Well, that would be awkward, asking him out of the blue,” Mama says. She lifts her water glass, then pauses and looks at me. “You did break it off with him, didn’t you, Elizabeth?”

I scowl at Maddie, then shift my gaze to my own water to avoid eye contact with Mama. I’ve barely spoken to my parents since Maddie’s birthday. On the rare occasions I have spoken with them, I didn’t mention Austin at all. My personal life isn’t open for anyone’s opinion, despite what they might believe.

“I’ve been busy at the hospital, Mama. No time for much of anything.”

“That didn’t answer my question. I thought your father and I made it clear that you shouldn’t be dating someone like him?”

Someone like him. Someone like your youngest daughter?

It takes all my might to bite my tongue. Instead I answer, “I’ve hung out with worse people in my life than an attractive, talented man who thinks I’m amazing, Mama.”

“Of course he thinks your amazing. I bet he says he loves you, too, doesn’t he?” The mocking question slides out of her mouth, in a tone sweet as the iced tea the server places in front of her.

The worst part about it isn’t that she doesn’t like Austin or she thinks he’s with me for our money, it’s the fact that Mama was the one who came from less money than Daddy. He was born into wealth, but she was born and raised regular, old middle class. It still makes me sad that she turned her back on her family when she got married. Slowly phased them out by the time I was in elementary school. She—of all people—has no right to question Austin’s motives for wanting to be with me.

I allow the server to set our drinks down before I speak. “He’s not what you think, Mama. He’s very ambitious and interesting and deep.”

“Deep,” Mama repeats.

The only time she uses the word deep is when she’s talking about the level of water in our pool. Deep isn't a trait my parents appreciate in others. They see it as a character flaw. Deep means introspective, maybe a dreamer. They have no use for dreamers. Logical, academic, business minds are the ones that impress them.

I can’t do this right now. I thought going to lunch with Mama and Maddie would help me heal a little bit, but now I’m regretting my decision. In theory, these two people should be the ones I can open up to. They used to be the first people I turned to when I needed a shoulder to cry on.

The exact opposite is true today. Telling them my residency ended is a failure. Telling them I have to start over in another program is humiliating—not only for me—but for my family, as well. I can’t say anything right now.

Part of me wants to call Emily; she wouldn’t care at all. She’d be my cheerleader. She always has been if it’s something that pisses my parents off.

I can’t bear to be around anyone in my family right now.

I take a deep breath and pull my phone out of my pocketbook. At first, I open my texts and click on an old message, as if I’m reading something important that just came in. Then I pull up the number of the only person I want to talk to right now.

Austin.

Very casual. Easy. Keep it cool, Liz.

Still casual. A little creepy that I double-messaged, instead of typing that in the first one. But hopefully he won’t think anything of it. I set my phone down on the table next to my plate.

“Is that work?” Mama’s voice is thick with disapproval when she speaks. She hates when anyone texts while engaging with people. She thinks it’s the epitome of bad manners. “Do they need you?”

“Yeah. Things are crazy, as always.”

Does she know that I talked to Dr. Crowder? It’s not improbable since word travels fast and Mama seems to have ears all over the city.

“You know how rude it is to text at the table,” Maddie says.

She becomes more and more like Mama every day, and that’s not a compliment.

A response text finally pops up.

“I have to go in,” I say, shoving my phone in my purse. “I’m so sorry to rush out like this.” I push back from the table and stand immediately, without waiting for any kind of response. “Thank you for lunch, Mama.” I say even though I haven’t ordered any food. Then I lean over and kiss her cheek. “Bye Maddie,” I call over my shoulder as I rush toward the door of the restaurant.