SUNDAY MORNING, BRUNCH

My mom doesn’t glance up from her work as I enter my parents’ dining room, but lifts a hand to wave me over. “Georgie, honey, hi. Grab a drink, then come look at this palette for the spring line. Do you think it whispers sweet pastels or does it simply scream tacky Easter egg hunt?”

I shrug out of my Burberry trench and drape it on the back of the chair before going and kissing the top of my dad’s salt-and-pepper head. He reaches up, patting my cheek fondly, as I go to the sideboard and pour myself a mimosa from the crystal carafe of orange juice and champagne nestled into the ice bucket alongside a gorgeous bouquet of lilies. I stroke a finger over a petal before taking my champagne flute over to where my mom sits bent over her work at the dining room table.

I sip and look over her shoulder as she holds up the swatches for my inspection. “Colors are good,” I say, “but there’s too much sparkle. Looks too much like what you did last year with the whole ‘modern fairy’ theme.”

As I say it, Andrew Mulroney’s derisive dismissal of my glitter makeup flits through my mind. It wasn’t worth the energy to tell him the difference between shimmer and sparkle, but damn, what I wouldn’t give to reverse his opinion of me, just a little bit.

“The fairy theme was two years ago,” Mom says distractedly. “But you’re right. You’re right. The colors want to say classy brunch, but the glitter’s saying bachelorette party.”

She scribbles something in her notebook and picks up her phone to shoot off an email. Dismissed, I take another sip of mimosa and glance across the table. Dad catches my eye over the top of the newspaper and winks before turning his attention back to the WSJ.

Welcome to Sunday brunch with my parents. It’s been a Watkins family institution for as long as I can remember. Fond memories, mostly, although if I’m going to be really honest, it got even more fun after I turned twenty-one and was allowed access to the champagne instead of being limited to the orange juice.

“How’s my darling daughter?” my dad asks, turning the page of his paper.

“I’ve been great,” I chirp, plopping down into my usual chair and giving Linda, my parents’ part-time housekeeper, a little wave as she sets a quiche and fruit salad on the table. My parents actually have a personal chef (I know), but Gavin only works on weekdays, so Sunday brunch is always catered. Sometimes it’s a quiche, sometimes a lox platter, sometimes eggs Benedict. One thing it’s not ever is homemade. New Yorkers aren’t known for their kitchen prowess.

“How are you? How’s work?” I ask.

My dad glances quickly at my mom before turning his attention to me. I know it’s silly, but it bothers me the way he seems to be seeking permission from my mom to talk about his work, when she hasn’t once looked up from hers.

Once upon a time, my family dynamics had worked like this:

Dad was the CEO of the real estate empire he inherited from my grandfather. My mom was the hottest thing in Hollywood after starring as a Bond-girl-style character in a blockbuster hit. They got married, had me, and my mom’s acting career fizzled before it ever really took off.

She didn’t seem to mind—she threw herself into the role of a Park Avenue housewife like nobody’s business.

But here’s the part that bugs me: back when my dad was the sole breadwinner, my mom was adamant that there be no work talk at the dinner table. It sounds like a decent enough plan, I guess, but my dad loves his work. Yeah, sure, he inherited a billion-dollar company, but he’s turned it into a multibillion-dollar company through ambition, smarts, and passion.

The older I got, the more it killed me to see him come home lit up with all this happy energy, only to have to tuck it away to ask my mom about her book club while he was forbidden to talk about the highlight of his day.

And now you’re thinking, But Georgie, your mom had good intentions.

Hmm, did she? Probably.

But get this: when Mom started her business, guess what? Her work talk was allowed at the dinner table. One might even say that Elite Cosmetics dominated the dinner table.

Take a look at the tableau in front of me—Sunday mornings are the one time each week my family gets together, and my mom’s end of the table is covered in folders and swatches, her gold MacBook, an iPad Pro, a phone. . . .

I’ll just say this: the hypocrisy bothers me. I love my mom. I love both my parents, fiercely. But I confess that sometimes I wish they just seemed . . . happier.

I’ll clarify. I wish they seemed happier together. I wish my dad didn’t look at my mom like a whipped dog, and I wish that my mom looked at my dad more.

Still, generally speaking, I know I’ve got it pretty good, so I try not to dwell.

I refocus my attention on my dad, who’s talking about some new deal he just signed for a multiuse high-rise on the West Side.

“That’s awesome,” I say, meaning it.

I didn’t get the real estate bug, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t see how hard he works. I appreciate that the empire he sits on—yes, the very empire that made it possible for me to afford my apartment, courtesy of the inheritance my grandmother left me—came from sweat and tears and long hours.

“What have you been up to, Georgie, sweetie?” Mom asks, practically the second my dad stops talking to take a sip of coffee.

“Oh, same old,” I say.

She glances up and gives me a sly smile. “I don’t suppose you’re going to bring a guy around one of these days? You haven’t dated anyone seriously since Marco.”

“Eh.” I lift my shoulders and spin my champagne flute on the table. “Nobody interesting enough to hold my attention.”

“Nobody?” my dad asks, giving me a curious glance.

I exhale through my nose, wondering how to explain that Andrew Mulroney, Esquire, doesn’t count.

He’s interesting, but not for me.

“There’s just this guy in my building. Getting under my skin a little,” I admit.

Both parents fix their attention on me at the same time. A rarity, trust me. They both love me, but usually they seem to take turns looking my way, perhaps to avoid eye contact with each other.

“Need me to beat him up?” my dad says.

My mom wrinkles her nose. “Jack, please.”

I tense at her snotty dismissal of him, but he gives me a wink. “Okay, fine. I know a guy. Better?”

I smile back. “Nah, he’s not worth the effort.”

“Who is he?”

“Andrew Mulroney, Esquire,” I say in a hoity-toity accent, miming the motion of drinking tea with my pinky finger in the air.

“Ah, a lawyer,” Dad says dismissively. “I know the type.”

“Wait, I know that name,” Mom says, tapping her black-manicured nails on her notebook. “Why do I know that name?”

I wave her comment away with the stem of my champagne flute. “He’s some celebrity divorce lawyer. Makes obscene amounts of money from busting up marriages.”

“Yes!” my mom says in recognition, pointing her pen at me and waving. “I know him. He handled Gwen Vanderman’s divorce last year. She ended up getting everything.”

“Everything but Bob, and he was the most decent thing about her,” my dad mutters.

“Gwen called him a boy genius. Made partner at an exceptionally young age,” my mom says, shifting attention back to her iPad. “He’s a good connection for you to have.”

“For what?” I ask incredulously. “I don’t even have a boyfriend, and you’re already planning my divorce?”

“This city’s all about networking,” Mom says distractedly. “Never hurts to align yourself with powerful people.”

“Oh, Andrew and I are aligned, all right,” I say, standing to refill my mimosa. “Him at one end of the battlefield, me at the other.”

“My money’s on you, sweetie,” my dad says loyally.

I turn back around, intending to ask if they want to go see the new exhibit at the Guggenheim.

I open my mouth, then shut it again when I see that my mom’s on the phone and my dad’s face is buried once more in his newspaper.

I head with my mimosa toward the kitchen to chat with Linda.

I’m not sure either parent notices when I leave.