My mother presses her lips together and looks at her menu. I await her next attempt at “normal family conversation.”

The waitress comes by, and my father orders dinner for all three of us.

I study the reflection of the light on my glass. Sometimes, being in a room with both my parents is like being trapped inside a play. One of those perverted Levittown nightmare kind, the sort that peel back the glossed-over 1950s American Dream, exposing the hell that it really was. When conversations about what’s for dinner and how the kids are doing erupt into screaming matches and threats. Except, my parents perform only the first act when we’re all together, and wait for the explosion of anger when they call me from opposite sides of the earth, wanting me to convey to the other what they think about the models brought back to hotel rooms or a boat purchased without calling to check first.

It would almost be better if there was screaming and yelling. If, right now, they started throwing drinks and voicing all the thoughts that must be racing through their minds as their lips weigh the pros and cons of various appetizers. Sure, it would make quite a scene in this eerily quiet and stuffy restaurant. But then everything would be out in the open. And then, maybe issues would be dealt with and changes would be made.

Instead, I’m supposed to go along with this charade, like I don’t mind talking about the weather or passing the bread when there is so much pain.

The infidelity, the threats of extortion if divorced, the games of control over bank accounts and properties... It makes me want to scream.

Sometimes when I’m with them, I feel like I’m drowning and trying to scream but no one can hear. With no outlet, my body is destroying itself from the inside out.

“So how are your classes going?” my mother asks as the waitress sets down our food.

I blink, and it takes a second for me to realize she’s talking to me. I clear my throat. “Uh, good, actually.” I squirm in my seat. “You know that one with Dustin Thomas? Our project went really well.” I adjust the napkin on my lap. “We got an A-plus, the first in the class’s history, and our professor recommended that we pursue the idea outside of class. And Thatcher Bell’s daughter is actually in the class and showed a lot of interest, so hopefully we’ll be able to meet with his firm.”

“Are you going out to any other firms?” my father asks. He doesn’t look at me as he speaks, focusing on cutting his steak.

“Uh, um, no, we don’t really have the resources for that right now. At this point I just feel very lucky that she—”