My parents’ estate is a 7,000 square-foot house in a gated community with three other homes. It sits on about 5 acres, most of which are made up of avocado, orange, and lemon groves.
I grew up in Calabasas and the city has never been that famous or popular before the Kardashians.
I also did not grow up in this house.
My parents moved here a few years ago just as I have moved into my studio apartment downtown.
While I was there for their relocation and watched my mom supervise the movers, asking them to rearrange the furniture at least three times around the living, dining, and sitting areas, neither of my parents have ever made the trip to see my apartment.
It’s not that they didn’t want me to move out.
They did.
They were just not pleased that I had refused their money and insisted on living in such a sad place, my mom’s exact phrasing.
The thing is that I sort of get it. Both of my parents grew up lower middle class. My mom got her undergraduate degree from UCLA in nursing and that's where she met my dad who ended up going to law school.
When I was growing up, we were quite well off.
Not well off by Los Angeles standards, but rather by America’s and by the world’s standards.
My dad made about $200,000 a year and we lived in a comfortable four bedroom house with a small pool and a big backyard.
But it was nothing like the estate that they got when he started clearing more than $3 million a year with his new clients.
I couldn't be happier for them. I know that they worked hard for every penny, but I also know that they had certain advantages other people don't.
But when it came to me?
I didn't feel comfortable taking their money, especially if I had a job that paid me a salary.
My sisters, on the other hand, had no such reservations.
When I pull up to the grand white columns out front, the valet meets me and takes the keys to my car.
Looking up at the stunning foyer with wall-to-wall marble, I wonder if I’m being an idiot for even considering getting a second job as a bartender just so that I can pay the student loan payments that are coming due in a month.
I had postponed them as much as I could, but now I have to pay almost another $1,500 a month in addition to my rent. It's the kind of money that I don't have, but it's also the kind of money that my parents wouldn't even notice.
A server approaches me as soon as I walk through the ornate double doors and hands me a glass of champagne.
One of my mom’s friends from Pilates, whom I have only met on one other occasion, rushes over and gives me air kisses on both cheeks as I try to remember her name.
After we both compliment each other on what we're wearing, however disingenuously, the server trips over himself trying to apologize for the fact that he didn't know that I was the bride-to-be.
“It’s fine, really,” I insist but he pries the champagne glass out of my hand and replaces it with a pink Martini.
I chuckle knowing that this is something that his boss (or maybe my sister or my mom) insist that he do.
“I'm so sorry about the catering situation,” my mom's friend rattles off.
She's tall, slim, and looks about twenty years younger than she really is after a lifetime of portion controlled food and daily workouts.
But she's also kind and more authentic than some of the other people that my mom hangs out with and I like her.
“It's okay,” I say, nodding my head. “Actually, Lindsey and Mom took care of it so I don't really know what exactly happened.”
“Okay, good. I just didn't want you to worry.”
I give her half a smile and try to pull myself away. I see my plan for the evening falling apart before my eyes.
I have arrived at the party with the intention of calling the whole thing off. I was supposed to first tell the valet and then the server and then maybe everyone else.
But if I can't even tell two people who couldn’t care less that my engagement is off, how I am going to tell my relatives, my parents’ friends, and God-forbid Alex’s out of town guests.
But now seeing the sea of people and actually facing the idea of giving a speech or worse yet talking to each of the guests one-on-one, my body becomes rigid.
I freeze on the spot, unable to move.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I mumble to myself.
Keeping my back to the room, I glide up the stairs, silently praying that no one sees me.
“Hey, you're here!” Lindsey yells at the top of the stairs.
Dressed in a tailored black dress that falls just below the knee and crosses in the back, my sister looks more like the bride-to-be than I do.
Her hair is cut short in a sleek bob and her face looks practically airbrushed.
She's wearing three-inch heels and walking perfectly in them regardless of her belly.
At six months pregnant, you can still barely see anything but a small protrusion on the outside of her dress.
Lindsey has always been tall, elegant, and thin. She has always known exactly how to style her clothes, how to do her hair, and how to apply her makeup.
In pictures, she always looks poised and beautiful, almost as if she had walked out of the society page of Coast.
She looks me up and down and shakes her head.
I glance at her, smiling at the corner of my lips. I know that she's judging me, but there's something else in her gaze.
“You can't wear that,” she says, grabbing me by my elbow. “Mom is going to freak out.”
She leads me to the master bedroom at the far end of the house. There are four other rooms attached to it; his and her bathrooms and his and her closets.
My mom's closet is about as big as my whole apartment. In addition to all of the built-ins, there is a large island with shelving and a runway-like area with a triple-fold mirror similar to the ones they have in bridal boutiques.
“You have to pick out something from her closet,” Lindsey says.
I shake my head.
“You have to,” Lindsey insists. “I think that the makeup and hair people haven’t left yet so they can fix you up before you go down there and mingle with everybody.”
“You know, I tried hard to look this good,” I say, sitting down on the couch and looking at my reflection in the enormous standup mirror.
“Are you kidding me?” she asks. “No, you haven’t. I have seen you try hard and this is not trying hard.”
“Mom didn't tell you, did she?” I ask.
“Tell me what?” Lindsey asks, pulling out a light teal dress that's just loose-fitting enough to fit.
“The wedding is off.”
“What are you talking about?” Lindsey whips her head around and stares at me.
“I can't believe that she didn't tell you.”
I shake my head and pick at my cuticles.
“Tell me what? What’s going on?” Her voice is desperate and out of control.
“I caught Alex cheating. Today. At lunch. With his boss.”
“No,” Lindsey hisses under her breath.
“Yes, and apparently it’s not a one-time thing.”
“No…”
“She's married and they've been seeing each other since three years before he met me.”
“So, he’s been with her this whole time?” Lindsey asks, putting her hand over her mouth.