Page 5 of The Black Wife Blessing

This could be it - my chance to prove to myself and everyone else that I'm more than my past mistakes. That I'm the chef I always knew I could be.

4

HENRY

Iswirl the champagne in my glass, watching the bubbles dance as I strategically position myself behind a massive floral arrangement. Mother's latest dinner party is exactly what I expected - a parade of New York's elite congratulating themselves on their success while plotting their next social climb.

"Henry, darling!" Mother's voice carries across the room. I duck further behind the arrangement, nearly knocking over a crystal vase. "Harrison, have you seen Henry? I swear, I thought I saw him over here…"

I down my champagne and snag another from a passing waiter. The food remains untouched on my plate - some pretentious deconstructed dish that I don't have the appetite for.

"Mr. Blackwood, your mother speaks so highly of you." A woman in her fifties corners me, her diamonds catching the light. "My daughter would love to discuss your experience in European markets."

"Fascinating." I scan the room for an escape route. "If you'll excuse me, I need to make a call."

I weave through clusters of guests, their conversations a swarm of name-dropping and passive-aggressive compliments. Someone mentions their new yacht. Another brags about their third vacation home. The artificiality of it all makes my skin crawl.

Mother appears again, this time with a brunette in tow. "Henry, you simply must-"

"Sorry, Mother. Business emergency." I pull out my phone and pretend to read an urgent message.

The dining room feels suffocating. These people, with their rehearsed laughs and calculated networking, represent everything I tried to escape in Europe. A waiter offers more champagne, and I grab two glasses this time.

Through the French doors, I spot the gardens. The temptation to slip away grows stronger with each minute. Mother's matchmaking attempts have become more aggressive since my return - as if parading every eligible socialite in front of me will somehow erase four years of building my own life.

"Did you hear about the Rodgers?" Two women whisper nearby. "Their son married apublic school teacher." They shudder as if discussing a tragedy.

I loosen my tie and check my watch. The exit is fifteen steps away. My driver could be here in ten minutes. The thought of freedom beckons, promising escape from this gilded cage of expectations and superficiality.

But Mother will throw a fucking fit if she finds out that I left the party earlier than expected. So, sticking around is what I'll have to do for now, even if it pains me to hear another one of those snobby conversations inside.

I step into the garden, the cool night air a relief from the stifling atmosphere. The meticulously manicured hedges and stone pathways offer temporary sanctuary. Taking a deep breath, I savor the silence-

"There you are!" Mother hurries down the stone path. "I've been looking everywhere for you."

I grip my champagne glass tighter. "Just needed some air."

"Well, you'll never believe who's here." She loops her arm through mine, steering me toward a stone bench. "Caroline Winston - you remember her from the club? She's just returned from finishing her MBA at Stanford. Such a lovely girl, and her family's pharmaceutical company is doing remarkably well."

"Mother-"

"And the Pembrokes brought their daughter Elizabeth. She's running their foundation now. Very philanthropic." She straightens my suit and messes with my tie, her fingers lingering on the Windsor knot. "You know, at your age, your father had already-"

"Been married for three years and was running the company. Yes, I know." The champagne turns bitter on my tongue.

"I just want you to be happy, darling." Her perfectly manicured hand pats my cheek. "And after that... unfortunate business venture in Europe-"

"That 'unfortunate business venture' is now worth eight figures." I pull away from her touch.

"But you could do so much more here, with the right connections, the right wife." She waves toward the house. "Take the Ashworths' daughter. Yale Law, impeccable family..."

I tune out her litany of accomplishments, watching a moth dance around the garden lights. Four years building something of my own, proving I could succeed without the family name, and she still sees it as a youthful rebellion to be corrected. The weight of generations of Blackwoods settles on my shoulders - each one following the same script of marriage, family business, country club memberships, and carefully orchestrated social circles.

"Henry? Are you listening?" Mother's voice cuts through my thoughts, sharp as a knife.

"Of course." I force a smile, the kind I've perfected over years of these conversations. "You were saying something about the Ashworths?"

"Yes, I was, actually! Their daughter is a very nice girl… I've forgotten her name, but believe me, she is a delight! Oh, and have you heard about Isabella Montgomery?" Mother's eyes light up once again. "She's just moved back from London. Her father's firm merged with-"

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