Page 30 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

“How did you do it?” Judy asks my mom. “Five kids and they’ve all done so well. Beautiful homes. Beautiful families. Successful and impressive careers.”

“There have been some hiccups,” my mom says.

Fucking hell. There it is. I didn’t know when. I didn’t know how. But at some point . . .

“Oh?” Judy asks with a little too much interest. “What kind of hiccups?”

I slouch in the chair where I’m tucked against a sideboard, mostly out of view.

It’s me, I think. I’m the hiccup. The blot in our otherwise aspirational family.

“We had to expect a few challenges,” my mom says, her voice a little quieter now. “Eleanor’s practically running the state government and a family of five. Haley’s absolutely glowing, as you can see. Riley and Emil have set a date for next spring. You can imagine how hard that must’ve been for two doctors with such busy schedules.” She pauses just long enough to collect a sympathetic mmm from Judy. “And Louisa and Reuben recently made things official. You should see their sweet little bungalow in Freeport. I swear. When I compare it to the first home Marty and I bought together, it seems like my children have all outshone me.”

I can practically hear my teeth grinding together as Judy does the math, counting the children my mom has named and debating whether to pry into the intentional omission. It’s one of my mom’s favorite conversational tactics. Avoid disparaging one kid by praising the others and let the disparagement be assumed. Then, if we challenge her, she can swear up and down that she never said anything negative about anyone. She did this to all of us as kids. It’s one of the reasons I spent so much time at Grams’s house.

“And Philippa?” Judy asks.

Goddammit. Of course. Judy always did love a bit of gossip.

“Oh, you remember how she was as a child,” my mom says in a light, wistful tone. “Always the outlier in the family, with such big dreams, and such a tough time accepting when those dreams weren’t her reality. If a job isn’t perfect . . . if a man isn’t perfect . . .” She lets out a lilting laugh that could almost be called a chuckle. It’s another tactic. Make a conversation sound like it’s all meant in fun. If anyone’s hurt by what she says, they’re being too sensitive.

It’s infuriating. And what she said is completely false. Perfectionism has never been my tragic flaw. I’m not sure what my tragic flaw is, but I doubt it’s related to not begging a guy who dumped me for another woman to give me another chance. Or not sticking it out for another seven or seventeen or thirty-seven years in a job that was eating my soul.

“I mostly remember her being quiet,” Judy says. “Studious and focused.”

“There’s studious and there’s reclusive,” my mom replies. “I’m not sure what she expects when she’s not willing to make an effort. Her sisters and brother didn’t get where they are now by hiding away from the world with only dusty old books for company.”

My blood boils, and rebuttals press at my lips, a battle cry for the introverted.

“She studied history, right?” Judy asks.

“Exactly.” My mom laughs again. “In this day and age. Everyone tried to tell her . . .”

Okay. Now I’m dying to come out raging, but I don’t want to create a scene in the middle of Haley’s party, so I swallow my fury as I sneak out of the living room and into the kitchen, out of earshot of whatever cheerfully delivered barb comes next.

I practically walk right into my dad, who’s chatting with Riley and his fiancé, Emil, while they snack from the open chip and pretzel bags meant as refill sources for the carefully selected decorative bowls in the living room. My dad’s holding a half-empty beer bottle while Riley and Emil hold each other, each with a hand free for snacks.

“Philippa!” My dad pats my shoulder with three or four beers’ worth of enthusiasm. His cheeks are rosy, and his volume is amped up a notch higher than necessary. He doesn’t drink very often, so when he does, we all notice. “We were just talking about you.”

“Oh?” I say, quickly scanning for every possible route of egress.

“How are the interviews going?” he asks. “Are you staying closer this time?”

I dart a panicked look at my brother. He inches up a shoulder as he mouths sorry when our dad’s not looking. Emil sneaks me an equally apologetic look. The two of them stand there in their beautifully tailored linens, floppy hair charmingly rakish, side-embracing like their job description for the day reads: Be adorable. Dr. Gatsby and Dr. Gatsby, not getting involved.

“Academic hiring is a slow process,” I tell my dad, which is true but conveniently omits that I only applied for three jobs, all of which were part time and probably went to known local candidates who could start immediately. “So many approvals are needed at every step. Just getting everyone in the same room for an interview can take weeks to schedule.”

My dad’s forehead furrows, a look that grows more extreme each year as his hairline recedes, the dark blond now streaked with a lot of gray.

“Didn’t you say you’d only be out of work for a few months?” he asks.

“Yes, but I can’t force the process to move faster through sheer willpower.”

“I thought you had a plan.”

“I did. I do.”

“An employment gap won’t look good on your CV.”