The name the announcer said was mine, and then, a beat later, the name of my production company. The dining room went so silent I could hear the grandfather clock in the hallway again. On the television, a photograph appeared, not of me in Target blouses and sensible shoes, but of me on a stage at an industry summit, standing in front of a logo every person at that table had scrolled past a hundred times without knowing it was mine. “Founder and chief executive,” the announcer said, “whose studio has produced some of the most-watched original series of the past three years.”

Dominic’s fork clattered against his plate. Rebecca’s mouth had fallen slightly open. My mother’s eyes moved from the television to me and back, as if the two images refused to connect. My father set down his wineglass very carefully, the way people do when their hands have stopped feeling steady. “Gabriella,” he said quietly. “That’s, that’s not, is that you?” I finally reached into my bag, the one they’d assumed held nothing but a cracked phone and grocery coupons, and I set a single sheet of paper on the mahogany table beside the cranberry sauce. It was the signed term sheet, dated that week. “You wanted something I could point to and say I built that,” I said, looking directly at my brother. “There it is. Two point nine billion dollars. Would you like me to explain what I do now, or should I keep it at the college-student level so it’s easier to follow?”