The text message arrived on December 17th at exactly 2:14 p.m., vibrating against the polished mahogany of my desk right as I was red-lining the finalized budget proposal for our upcoming, multi-million dollar climate change exhibition.
Derek: Sarah, about New Year’s Eve. Rebecca and I decided to keep it small this year, just her political crowd. You understand?
I set down my silver fountain pen. The ink on the financial ledger blurred for a fraction of a second as I read the words a second time, then a third.
My brother, Derek, two years my junior, had never been a man of particular subtlety. He operated with the blunt force of a corporate litigator used to getting his way, but this felt intentionally pointed, even for him.
Me: I thought you said it was going to be a big celebration. You got engaged two months ago.
I watched the three little gray dots dance on my screen, a digital manifestation of my brother calculating his next verbal strike.
Derek: It is big. But Rebecca is a congresswoman now. Her colleagues are coming. Other representatives, a senator, some major donors. She needs to make the right impression. You work at a museum gift shop or whatever. It’s just not the same level.
I pushed my chair back, the leather creaking slightly in the quiet of my expansive office on the third floor of the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History.
Through the floor-to-ceiling window to my right, I could see the frosty expanse of the National Mall stretching out toward the Capitol Building. It was the very same Capitol Building where Derek’s new fiancée, Congresswoman Rebecca Chen, now spent her days shaping national policy.
Me: Yeah, I see.
Derek: Don’t be like that. We’ll do dinner next month. Just us. Rebecca wants to get to know you better. But this party is important for her career. You get it, right?
I didn’t type a response. I just let the screen turn black.
I had a high-stakes briefing with the Secretary of the Smithsonian in exactly twenty minutes to discuss our strategic role in the upcoming International Museum Directors Summit. I had a keynote speech to draft for the American Alliance of Museums conference in February. I had seventeen senior curators waiting impatiently for my final executive approval on various international exhibition proposals.
I simply did not have the time, nor the emotional bandwidth, to explain to my younger brother that I was the executive director of one of the most prestigious cultural institutions on the planet. I oversaw a dedicated staff of 1,200 people. I managed an annual operating budget of $180 million. I served on three international advisory boards dedicated to global cultural preservation.
But he had never asked what I actually did. Not once.
“Museum work” had been a sufficient, dismissive explanation for him since I took this appointment four years ago.
My executive assistant, Jennifer, tapped lightly on the frosted glass of my door before slipping inside. She held a stack of color-coded folders against her chest.
“Dr. Mitchell, the Secretary’s office just called. They’re ready for you in the West Wing.”
“Thanks, Jen,” I said, smoothing the front of my blazer. I grabbed my secure tablet loaded with the summit proposal and stood up.
“Everything okay?” she asked, her brow furrowing as she caught the lingering tension in my jaw. Jennifer had worked in the trenches with me for three years; she had fielded enough frantic, dismissive calls from Derek to implicitly understand the exhausting dynamic of my family.
“Family,” I said shortly, the word tasting like ash.
She nodded sympathetically, stepping aside to let me pass.
The meeting with Secretary Williams went exceptionally well. The International Museum Directors Summit was slated to bring fifty of the world’s most formidable and influential museum leaders to Washington in mid-January. As the host institution’s director, I would be coordinating the entire affair. It was a staggering logistical responsibility, but also a massive opportunity to assert American cultural leadership on a global stage.
