The waiter arrived with our entrees, providing a momentary reprieve.
As we began eating, my mother made a valiant attempt to change the subject, asking about my favorite Berkeley experiences. I started describing my work with a legal aid clinic, explaining how we’d helped low-income residents with housing disputes.
“We managed to prevent three evictions last semester by pro bono work,” my father interrupted, cutting his steak with surgical precision. “Noble, but ultimately unsustainable. The legal profession isn’t charity work.”
“Some of us believe in using our skills to help others, not just enrich ourselves,” I replied, my patience finally beginning to fray.
His knife paused mid-cut. “And what exactly are you implying about my career, Natalie?”
“I’m not implying anything about your career, Dad. I’m stating facts about mine.”
The table fell silent. My mother looked terrified. Tyler stared at his plate while James watched our father’s reaction carefully.
“Your career,” my father said finally, placing his silverware down with deliberate care, “hasn’t even begun. Yet, you speak with such certainty about your path, despite having virtually no real-world experience.”
“I have four years of internships, clinical work, and research,” I countered. “Just because it’s not in finance doesn’t make it invalid.”
“Four years of playing at being a lawyer,” he dismissed. “Let me tell you what I see. I see a young woman who had every advantage, every opportunity to excel in a field with proven success, and who chose instead to waste her potential on idealistic crusades.”
