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“Of course, Mrs. Wempton.” As he walks away, I take the empty seat next to my sister, Ella.

“Where’s Sloan?” I ask. Gemma’s mother is usually here for these little get-togethers. After Gemma and I became best friends, she became a good friend to my mother.

My mother’s lips purse. “Oh, she couldn’t make it today. Something came up with Sebastian, I believe.”

“Ah.”

“Dear, I love that bag.” Mrs. Sinclair’s heavily made-up eyes lock onto the pink clutch with a ribbon hanging from my shoulder.

My mother got the extravagant, costing-way-too-much bag for me as a birthday gift once. I quote ‘to improve my style choices’.

I hate it.

But wearing the stuff she gives me saves me from a lot of discussion. Would she be angry if I gave Mrs. Sinclair the bag? It could be an opportunity to get rid of it.

“It feels like ages since we last saw you!” Mrs. Thompson, another close friend of my mother’s and the wife of a prominent lawyer swats my mother’s shoulder. She has been married three times. Her bleached teeth gleam unnaturally against her tanned skin. “You look absolutely stunning, as always. What’s your secret? A man?”

“Yes, tell us. Have you found a husband yet?” Mrs. Morgan chimes in.

They all married very young, and some even twice. Successful investment banker, the high-powered lawyer, the esteemeddoctor. Their husbands are just as curated as their designer clothes and flawless faces.

“No. Still happily single,” I say.

What they must think of me? Why isn’t she married yet? Doesn’t she want children? What does she do all day?

“Such a shame,” Mrs. Morgan says. “A lovely girl like you shouldn’t be single for so long.”

“It’s by choice.” Who am I kidding? Not even Chris wanted to be more than a fling. And before I get into a shallow relationship with suitor number 30, I’d rather have none at all.

From the side, my younger sister Ella, who has been quiet until now, shoots me a knowing look. We’ve both been subjected to this line of questioning many times before.

Though perhaps Ella not as intensely as me. As the second daughter, she could slip under the radar more, dodging some expectations placed upon my shoulders. She’s always been the complete opposite of me, where I am outgoing, she’s reserved and competitive. Unlike my short, wavy hair that falls above my shoulders, her brown hair is long and straight. However, we both possess blue eyes. At least one thing we have in common.

The waiter returns with my mimosa, and I take a generous sip. It’s the best thing at these get-togethers.

“So Mary,” my mother begins, “any exciting updates? I feel like I haven’t seen you all week.”

Here we go. The passive-aggressive reminder that I’ve been too busy living my life to attend the various society events andfamily obligations she deems important. Never mind that I work 50 hours a week at Dad’s company.

“Nothing new. Work. Sleep. Yoga.”

“You should work less and concentrate more on finding a man. Just take your sister, for example. She already has a handsome man, and I made it happen. He’s the son of a real estate tycoon.” My mother whips her head to her friends, who nod in agreement.

Yes, tap yourself on the shoulder for finding an asshole boyfriend who doesn’t treat her right. I remember exactly how he talked to her as soon as they were out the door after Sunday dinner, calling her a pig and telling her to stop pursuing acting. But that doesn’t matter, right? Who needs a supportive partner?

“Don’t scowl so much, or you’ll get wrinkles,” my mother says.

“Mother, I appreciate your concern, but I’m quite content with my life right now.”

“Content?” she scoffs. “You know, dear, time isn’t exactly on your side. At your age, I was already married and expecting you.”

In her world, a woman isn’t complete without a ring on her finger.

Honestly, sometimes I wonder if my mother realizes how ridiculous she sounds. Other times, I suspect she may actually believe her own propaganda. Either way, it’s exhausting trying to defend my choices against her constant barrage of criticism.I’m focusing on my career and personal growth rather than obsessing over finding a husband.

“I’m just being selective. What’s wrong with that?” I stir my mimosa, watching the bubbles fizz.

“Selective? Don’t be foolish. You don’t have the luxury of selectivity anymore.”

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