I asked to sit down, and my daughter-in-law snapped, “Stand, old woman,” loud enough for half the ballroom to hear, so I smiled and dialed one number she never expected.

Silence.

“No,” Natasha finally said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“And did you in fact tell her to ‘stand, old woman’?”

“It was taken out of context.”

“Context is irrelevant when it comes to discriminatory language at a foundation event,” Arthur said. “Mrs. Chen, you’ve created a significant liability issue. I’ll be contacting the board chair first thing Monday morning.”

He paused, and his voice turned colder.

“In the meantime, you will personally ensure that Mrs.—Dorothy, I’m sorry, what’s your last name?”

“Chen,” I said. “I’m Victor’s mother.”

A beat.

“Victor’s mother,” Arthur repeated, as if tasting the words for their weight. “I see.”

Then, back to Natasha: “Mrs. Chen, you will personally ensure that Mrs. Dorothy Chen has appropriate seating, refreshments, and any other accommodation she requires for the remainder of the evening. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” Natasha whispered.

“Dorothy,” Arthur said, softer now, “please don’t hesitate to call me again if there are any further issues. I’ll be following up with you next week.”

“Thank you, Arthur,” I said. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”

“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” he said, and then, to Natasha again, “Mrs. Chen, see that she does.”

I ended the call, placed my phone back in my bag, and looked up at Natasha.

She stood frozen, her face cycling through expressions—shock, rage, humiliation, calculation. Around us, people were trying very hard to pretend they hadn’t just witnessed what they’d clearly witnessed.

“I think I’ll sit here until dinner starts,” I said pleasantly. “If that’s all right.”

Natasha said nothing. She just turned and walked away, her silver gown swishing, her heels clicking sharply against the floor.

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All right, let’s continue.

A woman at the next table leaned over. “That was magnificent.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“I’m Caroline,” she said. “Caroline Mitchell. My husband’s on the board, too.”

“Dorothy Chen,” I said. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Your son is Victor, then?”

“Yes.”

She smiled. “I’ve always liked Victor. He’s genuine. Unlike—” She trailed off diplomatically.

Unlike his wife, I didn’t say.

“You didn’t have to,” Caroline said quietly, as if she’d heard the thought anyway.

A waiter appeared at my elbow. “Mrs. Chen. Mrs. Natasha Chen asked me to bring you water, tea, or coffee. Whatever you’d like.”

“Water would be lovely,” I said. “Thank you.”

He returned moments later with water, a small plate of appetizers, and a cushion for my chair.

“Mrs. Chen also wanted you to have this cushion for your comfort,” he said.

“How thoughtful,” I murmured.

Caroline caught my eye. We both smiled.

Victor found me twenty minutes later. He looked stressed, which was his default state lately.

“Mom,” he said, lowering his voice, “what happened?”

“I asked to sit down,” I said. “My knees were hurting. And Natasha said no, rather forcefully.”