My mom said: “To my biggest regret – my 29 year old daughter who still can’t afford rent!”. Everyone laughed and clapped. My dad added: “We should’ve stopped at two kids!”.

My sister’s husband whispered loud enough for everyone to hear: “Glad our kids won’t turn out like her”. I said: “By New Year’s, you’ll all be begging for my forgiveness”. They laughed even harder.

Two weeks later, 78 missed calls. Mom: “Please pick up I didn’t mean it.” Sister: “Hey sis… this isn’t funny anymore!!”

“My biggest regret is sitting right there,” my mother said, lifting her champagne glass toward me at Christmas dinner as if I were a stain on the tablecloth instead of her twenty-nine-year-old daughter. My name is Emma Whitmore, and until that night in Portland, Maine, I thought I had already heard the worst my family could say about me.

I was wrong. My mother smiled at everyone in the packed private dining room above my parents’ restaurant, Whitmore’s Pier House, the kind of old waterfront place with polished wood railings, framed harbor photos, and warm lights people like to call charming when they are not the ones being cornered under them. “To my biggest regret,” she said sweetly, “my daughter, who still can’t afford rent.”

My cousins laughed first.

Then my father chuckled like he had been waiting for permission. He tapped his glass with the back of his fork and added, almost cheerfully, as if he were helping complete a joke everyone would enjoy. “Honestly, Patricia and I should’ve stopped at two kids.”

Across from me, my sister Lauren’s husband leaned toward her and whispered loudly enough for the entire table to hear.

“Glad our kids won’t turn out like her.”

The laughter got louder. Lauren covered her mouth, not to stop herself from laughing, but to pretend she was embarrassed by it. My aunt stared into her wine as though she had suddenly become fascinated by the reflection of the chandelier.