Emma

When I get home, I strip off my blouse, pencil skirt, and bra and get into the shower. It feels warm and comforting, but as soon as I turn it off, I know that my day is not over. In fact, it's only just beginning.

I live in a studio apartment in downtown LA in one of those forgotten four-plexus that no one has remodeled in years.

There's no air-conditioning.

The woman who lives below me lives on social security and has five cats.

She likes to play the trumpet around nine o’clock each night, which normally would annoy me, but her cats always let me pet them so I don’t complain.

It's no secret that my parents have a lot of money, but their money is not my money.

Unlike my sisters, I want to live on what I earn, but because I’m a magazine writer in 21st century America, I don't make much.

I stare out the window, looking past the bars at the bleak alleyway outside. There are No Parking signs everywhere and not a single tree in sight.

My block doesn't have many trees at all and that's not uncommon for low-income locations like this one.

In comparison to this place, Alex’s brand new two-bedroom condo overlooks a park square, with mature landscaping, a few benches, and even four or five lush flowerbeds.

After our wedding, we planned to buy something together. He kept pestering me to move in with him every time I stayed over, which was almost every day.

Still, I kept this place. I don't know why. There are bars on the windows, the closet is the size of a postage stamp, and just not enough wall space for all of my books.

I pay about $1,200 a month for this crappy place and Alex pays $3,000.

He makes so much that he didn’t want me to contribute to the rent. But still something was keeping me here.

It didn't make any financial sense, but then again when has anything that I have ever done made any financial sense?

My parents wanted to pay for my school, but I chose to take out loans and make my own way in the world.

I know that my decision to do so had a lot to do with hubris and pride, but it was my choice and I wanted to see that I could do it.

I did the same thing when it came to the car. To celebrate my graduation from college, my father presented me with a brand new white BMW with all the bells and whistles, but I refused to accept it.

I had saved up for a 2012 Toyota Prius and the fact that it drove my parents crazy that I would be seen driving that car in their neighborhood in front of all their friends and acquaintances, was just a little cherry on top of the whole situation.

I open my closet door and stare at the two dresses that I have.

I bought both of them on sale at Nordstrom Rack. I don't normally shop there, but I knew given that my mom and sister were hosting this party for me that they would expect me to wear something decent.

The blue dress with the Michael Kors tag pinches at my waist. I examine my reflection in the stand-up mirror, a splurge that I had allowed myself when I saw it at West Elm and couldn’t take my eyes off of it.

I rarely feel that way about things or clothing, so I figured that I could allow myself this one indulgence.

The girl looking back at me looks tired and exhausted. The makeup that I had applied earlier has washed off. My hair, shoulder-length and light brown, is half-dry and half-frizzy.

While my sisters are probably getting their hair professionally blow dried and their makeup professionally applied, I do it all myself.

I've never liked getting glammed up, especially not in a room full of relatives. I have always felt like an outsider and the girl staring back at me now confirms that fact.

I take off the blue dress and reach for the dark blue one with little pink flowers that I got at a thrift store on Fairfax Avenue.

I know that they are expecting me in something more lavish and appropriate for the evening, but the fact that I have to go there in the first place is making my blood boil.

They have worked hard on this party, but I also know that I shouldn’t be expected to go to my own engagement party a few hours after I caught my fiancé cheating on me.

After I change into the thrift store dress, I look at myself in the mirror.

Yes, this is much better. The dress is casual, but not so casual that it looks like a day dress.

In a picture, it could possibly pass for something costing over $200, but up close, you can tell that the material is subpar.

I don't care.

It feels nice to the touch and it looks good on me.

Let's just say that I don't have that type of body shape that’s becoming to all dresses.

That's one of the reasons that I tend to stay away from them in the first place.

I feel most comfortable in something casual; leggings, a big T-shirt, and sneakers.

Heels? I fucking hate heels.

I slip my feet into the most comfortable pair of low-rise loafers that I have and grab the heels that I'm going to wear at the party with me.

I scan the room looking for anything that I might have forgotten. Catching my reflection in the mirror again, I know that my mom will be disappointed.

I let my hair air dry without a stitch of product. I'm wearing a little bit of foundation and mascara.

My lips are lined with one of my favorite plumb colors of gloss and my eyebrows are accentuated with just a little bit of wax.

The look basically says I’m trying but not very hard.

I don't care.

I'm going there in protest.

It's the last place that I want to be, but I'm afraid that if I don't show up the consequences will be dire.

The cerebral, objective part of me realizes that given that I'm a grown woman who doesn't rely on her parents for money, there are not many consequences that they even have the ability to give me, but still.

After all these years, I feel a sense of obligation to keep up appearances and to not fuck my mom and sisters over by standing up a party in my own honor.

The last thing I grab before walking out the door is my Kindle. The walls of my apartment are lined with bookshelves which overflow with books.

I have loved to read since I was a little girl. Nothing makes me feel better about escaping into another world and into other people’s problems like a good book.

When it comes to reading, I like both paper books and ebooks. I always carry my Kindle in my purse. It's small and doesn't take up much room and never weighs me down and it can hold thousands of books.

There's something different about it than just reading on my phone. This is a device just for reading. There are no interruptions and no notifications. I'm not tempted to go on social media or do anything else.

I know that it's probably a long shot that I'll be able to sneak away sometime during the party, but I take it with me just in case.

7

Emma

After fighting traffic for close to two hours, I finally get to the hills above the 101. It's springtime and the land is green and lush after a winter soaked in rain.

As I go around the narrow switchbacks, a sweeping view of the ocean pops up, taking my breath away.

I grew up here and I pretend to like the grind and the concrete that dominates downtown LA, but I really don't.

When I pull up to the gate of my parents’ sprawling estate and enter the code, my chest tightens up.

Regardless of the views or the avocado orchard that welcomes me up the curvy driveway, claustrophobia settles in.