My father, Thomas Bennett, invited the entire family to Thanksgiving dinner as if we were the sort of people who gathered around a polished mahogany table, smiled at each other, and genuinely meant it. We weren’t.
By five that afternoon, the dining room of my parents’ sprawling Greenwich, Connecticut estate glowed beneath crystal chandeliers and silver candelabras. The house was filled with the scents of roasted turkey, sage stuffing, expensive wine, and the perfume of people who had spent most of their lives making certain everyone knew exactly how wealthy they were. Crystal glasses clinked.
Relatives laughed louder than necessary.
Business cards were exchanged between courses.
My older sister, Natalie, arrived wearing a cream cashmere dress, a diamond bracelet sparkling around her wrist.
Her husband worked in finance and rarely spoke unless investments came up. Their two children were immediately paraded around by my mother like proof that Natalie had won at life.
My older brother, Ryan, arrived next, carrying a bottle of bourbon that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
Ryan was the golden child.
The heir.
The son my father had spent thirty years preparing to inherit Bennett Development Group, even though the business had been losing money for three straight years. Aunts, uncles, cousins, and family friends filled the mansion.
And I, Claire Bennett, was in the kitchen.
