I stood over the stove, carefully stirring the Arborio rice. The kitchen of my parents’ house was expansive, fitted with Viking appliances and marble countertops that I had paid for, though they liked to pretend the money came from my father’s “investments.”
My phone buzzed on the counter. I glanced at the screen.
Caller ID: Sequoia Capital.
Subject: Series B Funding – Aurora Collective.
Valuation: $150 Million.
I wiped my hands on my apron and pressed the red “Decline” button.
I wasn’t Julian Sterling, the elusive founder of the world’s fastest-growing restaurant group, today. Today, I was just Julian, the disappointment. The son who “didn’t have a real job.” The househusband who stayed home with his daughter while his wife, Sarah, traveled for her (very real, but much less lucrative) job as a corporate lawyer.
The kitchen door swung open, letting in a draft of cold air and the loud, boisterous voice of my father, Arthur.
“Still playing house, Julian?”
Arthur walked in, stomping snow off his boots. He was wearing a camel-hair coat that he thought made him look like a tycoon, unaware it was two sizes too small. Behind him was my brother, Marcus.
Marcus was a Vice President at BlueFin Logistics, a mid-level trucking company. He wore a Bluetooth earpiece at all times, even on Christmas, to signal his importance.
“Hey, little brother,” Marcus grinned, clapping me on the shoulder hard enough to make me stumble. “Smells like… well, it smells like food. At least you’re good for something.”
“It’s Beef Wellington, Marcus,” I said, turning back to the stove. “And Black Truffle Risotto for Lily.”
“Risotto?” Arthur scoffed, pouring himself a glass of my expensive scotch without asking. “Why can’t you just make mashed potatoes like a normal person? Always trying to be fancy. It’s a waste of money.”
“It’s Christmas, Dad,” I said quietly. “I wanted to make something special.”
“Special is a paycheck,” Arthur snapped. “Special is providing for your family. Look at Marcus. He just closed a deal for twenty trucks. That’s a legacy. What’s your legacy? A good gravy recipe?”
I tightened my grip on the wooden spoon. They didn’t know. They didn’t know that the “legacy” Marcus bragged about was a contract with my supply chain subsidiary. They didn’t know that the scotch Arthur was drinking cost more than his monthly mortgage payment—a mortgage I secretly subsidized every month so they wouldn’t lose the house.
“I provide, Dad,” I said. “Sarah and I are doing fine.”
“Because of Sarah!” Arthur shouted, his face flushing. “You’re a leech, Julian. Living off your wife’s hard work while you play chef. It’s embarrassing. When I meet my friends at the club, I have to lie about what you do. I tell them you’re a ‘consultant’.”
“Technically true,” Marcus laughed. “He consults on which diaper brand is best.”
They roared with laughter.
I looked down at the risotto. It was a deep, glossy black, colored by squid ink and studded with chunks of black truffle. It was earthy, rich, and incredibly complex. It was my daughter Lily’s favorite dish.
I swallowed the anger rising in my throat. Keep the peace, I told myself. For Lily. For Mom. Just get through dinner.
“Dinner will be ready in ten minutes,” I said. “Please go sit down.”
Arthur swirled his drink. “Fine. But don’t expect a tip.”
Part 2: The Discarded Meal
The dining room was decorated with excessive tinsel and flashing lights, Arthur’s attempt to project wealth. My mother, a quiet woman who had learned long ago not to interrupt her husband, was already seated, nervously adjusting the napkins.
I brought the platters out. The Wellington was perfect—crisp pastry, tender meat. The vegetables were glazed to a jewel-like shine.
And then, I brought out the small, special bowl for Lily.
Lily was six years old, sitting on a stack of cushions to reach the table. Her eyes lit up when she saw me.
“Daddy! Is that the special rice?”
“It sure is, princess,” I smiled, placing the bowl in front of her. “The Midnight Risotto. Just for you.”
Lily clapped her hands and picked up her spoon.
Arthur leaned over, peering at the bowl with a look of utter disgust.
“What in God’s name is that?” he demanded.
“It’s risotto, Grandpa,” Lily chirped. “It has truffles!”
