Page 11 of Iron Will

“Your father’s fine, too, by the way,” she finally sniffs.

“I’m so glad to hear it!” I enthuse, refusing to rise to the bait. By now, I’m at my front stoop. Instead of going inside my house right away, I decide to sit down on the top step. “Tell me more. What have you two been up to?”

Grudgingly, she launches into a narrative that’s still tinged with anas though you caretone. But if there’s one thing my mother loves doing, it’s talking about herself, so I know this is the quickest way to defuse her temper. Sure enough, within a couple of minutes she’s caught up in some story of how their friends the Meads are splitting up after twenty-nine years of marriage, andisn’t that just terrible. (Of course, the barely-suppressed cattiness in my mom’s voice tells me that she is thoroughly enjoying the scandal — after all, marital strife is great fodder for society gossip among the wealthy.)

“I do have a wonderful bit of news,” she finally says, switching gears.

Aha. This must be the main reason she’s calling. “What’s that?” I ask.

“Lindsay is engaged!”

“Oh, that’s nice,” I murmur. “Who to?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Delaney,” my mother huffs. “To Nick, of course. We’re just all so happy. Of course, your father is over the moon.”

Yeah. He would be. Robert Harris, Nick’s father, is my dad’s biggest donor. The Harris family of Louisville is one of the richest in the state. Marriage to their only son is a fantastic alliance for a senator’s daughter. My younger sister couldn’t possibly have made a better match, as far as my parents are concerned.

Even though Nick Harris is a self-important, moneyed asshole who doesn’t give two shits about her, beyond the fact that she’s arm candy and a senator’s daughter.

And this, of course, is the subtle dig, and therealreason my mother is calling — unsaid, but coming through as clear as a bell.

My sister is fulfilling her destiny as the daughter of a prominent politician. She fully embraces her trophy wife future of shopping trips, charity balls, personal trainers, and spa dates.

I, on the other hand, insist on slumming it as a soon-to-be-old maid social worker out in the middle of nowhere, southern Ohio.

My mother chatters on blissfully about how Nick proposed (a ring brought on a silver platter at dessert at the most expensive restaurant in town, how original), how Lindsay has already booked the wedding venue, and who will do their engagement photos. There’s a mention of Lindsay’s maid of honor, as well.

Which is when I realize that Lindsay herself hasn’t called me about any of this.

I’m guessing I will not be asked to be one of the bridesmaids. I should probably feel bad about that, but instead, I feel an immediate sense of relief. The only thing I can imagine more uncomfortable than attending this high-profile wedding is having to stand in front of the five-hundred or so guests that will no doubt be there during the ceremony, enduring their scrutiny and their whispered comments about thestill single older sister. All while wearing an uncomfortable, frou frou dress that I’ll need assistance to take on and off.

Finally, my mom’s excitement starts to wind down after she’s told me literally every single detail she can think of. “Well,” she eventually sighs, her tone shifting. “So, what’s new with you, Delaney?”

She sounds so resigned I almost laugh. Neither one of my parents has approved of a single decision I’ve made since I switched my major in college from English to social work. They tried everything they could think of to try to get me to change my mind, including my father threatening to cut off my college funding. (He eventually backed down on that, probably reasoning that a daughter who was a college dropout was an even worse look for him than a daughter who was majoring in something so pedestrian.)

After graduation, my parents leaned on me hard to channel the social work degree into working for one of the prestigious nonprofits in Louisville — that is, one of the organizations where young socialites could spend time working for a socially-acceptable “cause” while looking for their future husbands.

But by that time, I had been away from home long enough to know that the very last thing in the world I wanted to do with my life was follow in the footsteps of my parents.

Not their socialite lifestyle. Andespeciallynot their marriage.

My mother, for all her surface haughtiness and impeccable pedigree in tony Louisville society, is in actuality one of the most miserable people I’ve ever met. And the strange thing is, I’m not even sure she realizes it. Underneath the shiny surface of being Senator Rodney Hart’s lovely wife, the fact is that she lives under the thumb of a bully who scrutinizes and criticizes her every thought, word, and deed. And always has.

And somehow, my mother thinks it should be my life’s aspiration to be just like her.

When I got this job in Ironwood, it caused a family scandal so large, you would have thought I’d revealed I was addicted to crack.

The fact that I’vekeptthis job? And that it’s become clear to my parents this isn’t just some youthful rebellion?

Well, let’s just say that one of the advantages is that they hardly ever talk about me anymore in their social circles.

It’s sort of a relief being a pariah, to be honest. There’s a lot less pressure. When I go home to visit, they’re a lot less likely to parade me around in all the hot spots of Louisville. I’m an embarrassment to them. And I’ll continue to be, until I reform myself, realize the error of my ways, and come crawling back into the fold.

So even though most daughters in my situation might tell their mothers all about what happened at work today -- that I met a little girl and a mom, and I’m worried about them — I find myself swallowing back the words.

“Oh, you know,” I chirp instead. “Same old, same old.”

“Yes, well,” Mom replies drily. “You know I just don’t understand why you insist on doing a job like that, Delaney. It’s certainly not like youhaveto work. And the pay can’t be all that much after all. It’s just incomprehensible to me.”

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