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“Our son is coming for a visit,” Cynthia reminded him. “You remember. The one who looks the most like you. The one who decided to move to Japan to get away from us.”

Nathaniel closed his eyes, remembering now. Their youngest son, Chris Hawkins, had moved to Japan two years ago to pursue some degree that Nathaniel didn’t remember anything about. Something that made him happy, probably. Chris was home for a visit, maybe because of a wedding? Or a reunion with college friends? Nathaniel couldn’t remember. But Nathaniel’s campaign manager wanted Chris to stay a bit longer, if only so that the six of them—the Six Happy Hawkins—could take photographs and show solidarity as the election came closer. Everything in a mayoral campaign was marketing.

“I’ll be there,” Nathaniel promised his wife. “Can’t wait.”

Cynthia said a few more things about dinner, about what she was having catered, and Nathaniel thanked her profusely and counted the seconds till they could get off the phone. When at last they hung up, he sat with his forehead against the desk and willed himself not to cry. Again, he was nearly fifty. Grown men like him—men who’d been given everything in life, who wanted for nothing, who had power and money and multiple homes and multiple children—did not cry.

True to his word, Nathaniel returned home by six that evening. In the living room were his four children, Ben, Billy, Jenny, and Chris, waiting for him with glasses of wine and nervous smiles. He scooped them all in hugs. “All my favorite people are here!” he called.

His children laughed, then explained that Cynthia was elsewhere in the house. She was on the phone with someone, but she’d join them soon.

They talked about their mother as though they spoke of someone on television.

“Perfect,” he said. He poured himself a glass of wine and joined his children, demanding details about their lives. Although his campaign manager had expressed how “not great” the optics were regarding his children and their “lack of marriage and children,” which meant “lack of values” to the voters, Nathaniel personally loved how different they’d all become. Chris was in Japan, which sounded like a fantastic adventure. But Ben ran a non-profit here in Boston, Billy was writing a novel, and Jenny did whatever Jenny wanted, all the time, which was sort of cool in a way, since she didn’t seem to care what that meant for her father’s career in business or politics.

The point was, Nathaniel adored his children. He felt they were his greatest blessings. If they gave him grandchildren one day, that would be great. But heck, he was only forty-eight. There was time.

Eventually, Cynthia joined them. She made a big show of hugging Chris before ushering them all into the dining room, where an immaculate feast awaited them.

As they walked to the table, Nathaniel watched his wife, who’d done every kind of face treatment and every kind of medication to make herself look as young as possible. Truly, she looked stunning, so much so that his campaign manager had joked that the people of Boston would only vote for Nathaniel because they wanted to see more of his wife.

Cynthia’s beauty felt far away from Nathaniel, as though it spoke a different language to him.

“Jenny, why don’t you sit at the head of the table?” Nathaniel suggested, tired of sitting there, lording it over his children.

Jenny cackled. “All right, Daddy. You don’t have to tell me twice.”

Cynthia made a face at Nathaniel, then sat across from Jenny at the opposite head. Silence fell across the table.

“I don’t know why you have to make a scene like this,” Cynthia said to Nathaniel.

“What’s the big deal?” Nathaniel asked. “They’re just chairs. We’re just a family, spending time together. Why does it matter in which order we sit?”

“And everyone knows I’m the secret leader of this family,” Jenny said, raising her glass.

Chris cackled slightly louder than he should have. Nathaniel guessed that his jet lag and his glasses of wine had gone to his head. Cynthia cast Chris a look that meant shut up.

But Chris didn’t seem keen on paying attention to his mother. Historically, Chris had never been keen on Cynthia. He hadn’t offered her much respect, either. His high school years—both here and in boarding school—had been nightmarish for Cynthia, and for Nathaniel by extension, as he’d had to hear all about it.

Of course, Nathaniel had never had much trouble with Chris. He’d always understood his youngest son emotionally. He wanted to be free and have fun.

Nate had once been like that. Maybe he still was, deep down.

The first course came. For a while, Nathaniel managed to keep the goodwill at the table. He listened to more of his children’s stories and told a few of his own. He recounted how pleased he was not to be involved in “that business racket” now that he was involved in politics.

“It’s just another version of racket, though, isn’t it, Dad?” Jenny asked.

Nathaniel laughed along with Chris. “I guess you’re right,” he said. “But I’m hoping I can actually do some good around here. Both in Boston and, who knows?” His political aspirations were the strongest he’d ever had.

“I’m pulling for you and even planning to vote for you,” Jenny said. “But don’t tell my friends. They think I’m an anarchist.”

Again, Chris howled with laughter. Nathaniel couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. His other two children, Ben and Billy, said that their friends were coming around Nathaniel. Nathaniel raised his hands in a faux-politician manner and said, jokingly, “People of the Hawkins family, I thank you for your potential votes, if you bother to make it down to the polling booths at all.”

“We’ll try, Daddy,” Jenny said.

But Cynthia made a noise in her throat and set her glass down hard. “I don’t know why you all want to make a fool out of your father. You’re making fools of all of us, in fact. The entire Hawkins family, including your grandfather.”

Jenny rolled her eyes, which only made Chris laugh more. Cynthia looked outraged.