Chapter One : Bougie Vibes

Amira

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“Amira, darling.”

I don’t know if my mother has ever said my name any other way. It was always drawn out like it should be written in cursive and polished like she practiced it in front of the mirror. She could make a grocery list sound like a sermon. Her smile didn’t move, not even when she lifted her mimosa.

“Your father and I will be cruising to St. Barts for the holiday. I thought it’d be lovely to get away for a while.”

I pressed the edge of my fork against my avocado toast, watching the yolk from my poached egg slide across the sourdough. These brunches always felt staged. The linen napkins folded just so, the waitstaff knowing us by name, and the steady stream of champagne it was less “family time” and more “PR campaign”.

The table was full, technically. My mother across from me in her Chanel suit, pearls glowing against her brown skin like they were made just for her. My father beside her in his tailored navy blazer. He scanned the room as if the New York Stock Exchange might suddenly move to the country club dining hall. Plates clinked, glasses refilled, and small talk was exchanged. It was full, but never full in the way that mattered.

My father cleared his throat and adjusted his cufflinks, “St. Barts is a good choice. Warm weather. Privacy. We’ll be with the Wentworths, of course. You remember theme?”

I nodded, though I didn’t. All their friend blurred together. Their smiles were too white, tans too perfect, and their lives were too curated. They remembered me as the daughter, a polite accessory to their holiday parties. I was never Amira.

My mother dabbed at her mouth with a napkin.

“We’ll have the staff at the house prepare a proper meal before we leave. You’re welcome to invite friends, of course. Or, perhaps you’d like to take a plate back to that little apartment of yours.”

I gave her my best polite smile, the one I’d perfected over the years.

“Thanks, mom. But I’ll be fine,”

There it was. Fine. The word I threw around like confetti over all the cracks in my life. I was fine when my parents skipped out on holidays. I was fine when they forgot my birthdays. I was fine when my ex disappeared without a word. I was fine when I was alone in a city full of people. I was fine. I was always fine.

“Amira,” my mother’s voice cut into my thoughts again, “Is everything all right? You seem…distracted.”

Distracted. That was her nice way of say I looked miserable. I stabbed at another piece of toast with my fork, forcing another smile.

“I’m fine.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she didn’t push. My father jumped in to fill the silence.

“How’s work?”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I didn’t have a glamorous career like some of my cousins. There wasn’t a corner office or six-figure salary. I worked in marketing. It was a steady nine-to-five that paid my rent and kept me in Zara and Sephora. It wasn’t exactly brunch conversation.

“It’s good,” I said, keeping it short.

My father nodded like that was the end of it, already pulling out his phone to check his messages. Typical. My mother, though, she wasn’t done.

“And what about your…personal life?” Her tone was casual, but her eyes sparkled.

Here we go.

 I took a slow sip of my mimosa, buying time, “It’s fine.”

Her lips twitched, “Still no one special?”

I hated how the question sank into me like a weight. My mind went straight to Jordan.  Everything about him haunted me still from his laugh, his cologne, and the way my parents used to light up when he walked into a room. For a while, I thought he was it. I thought he was the man who understood both me and the world I came from. But, then one day he was gone. There was no fight and no goodbye just silence. My calls went unanswered. My texts were left on read, and my heart was left in pieces. I was ghosted. And of course, my parents never mentioned him again. It was like he was a bad investment they’d rather write off than revisit. 

I sat my glass down carefully.

“No one special,” I said, keeping my voice steady.

My mother sighed dramatically, the way only she could.

“Well, you’re still young. But, it would be nice if you brought someone home one of these holidays. Your father and I do want grandchildren someday.”

My father looked up from his phone long enough to grunt in agreement, “It’s important to build a legacy.”

I bit back a laugh. Legacy. That was always his angle. It was if love could be scheduled like a quarterly report. I didn’t bother responding. Instead, I let the conversation drift back to their world. I thought about the trips, the investments, and the gossip about people I barely remembered. I nodded when appropriate, smiled when necessary, and finished my champagne before ordering another. By the time brunch ended, I felt like I’d run a marathon with no finish line.

Sliding into my Rage Rover afterward felt like freedom. I tossed my sunglasses on, turned the volume up on my Summer Walker playlist, and exhaled for the first time all morning. Brunches with my parents were always the same: perfectly plated food, perfectly polished conversation, and me perfectly pretending. 

They had given me everything money could buy, but what I wanted couldn’t be catered, delivered, or tucked neatly into a designer bag. I wanted warmth. I wanted connection. I wanted real.

Instead, I had a closet full of clothes ,a condo that looked like it belonged in a magazine spread, and a phone that stayed too quiet. Fine. I was always fine. I gripped the steering wheel tighter as a thought rose in me that I couldn’t quite push down. Maybe this year, I’d stop waiting for “fine” to turn into something more. Maybe this year, I’d finally take happiness into my own hands. 

Whatever that meant.