The way she said honest work sounded like the exact opposite. It sounded like contempt, like superiority, like thank God I never had to lower myself to that.
“Admirable,” Marlene’s father said, but his tone was condescending. “Hard work should always be respected. Though, of course, we made sure Marleene had every opportunity so she wouldn’t have to go through that.”
I nodded slowly. I said nothing. I just nodded because every word that came out of their mouths was just another reason to wait, to let them keep talking, to let them feel secure on their pedestal.
Michael finally looked at me. For a second, I saw something in his eyes—guilt? shame? I’m not sure—but it disappeared as quickly as it appeared.
“Mom,” he said softly. “Are you okay? You’re very quiet.”
“I’m perfectly fine,” I replied calmly. “I’m just observing.”
Marlene let out a short laugh. “Observing. How interesting.”
She turned to her mother. “See? I told you she was quiet.”
The desserts arrived: four plates of tiramisu with edible gold flakes. Because of course, even the dessert had to be ostentatious. While they devoured their desserts, I was still there, motionless, with my glass of water that I hadn’t even touched. Condensation had formed a small puddle around the base.
I watched the drops slide down the glass, slow, like tears I wasn’t going to shed. I wouldn’t give them that pleasure.
Marlene wiped her mouth with her napkin and sighed, satisfied. “This is definitely my favorite restaurant. The quality is unmatched. Of course, it’s not for everyone’s budget.”
Another jab. Another stab disguised as a casual comment. I wondered how many more would come before this torture ended.
Her father ordered a cognac. Michael ordered a whiskey. The women ordered more wine. I was still with my water. No one offered me anything else. No one asked if I wanted at least a coffee. It was as if they had collectively decided that I didn’t even deserve basic courtesies.
Marlene’s father, lighting a cigar that the waiter had brought him, said, “Your wife told us you’re considering that promotion at the company. That would mean more responsibilities, right?”
My son nodded, straightening in his chair. “Yes, sir. I’d be the regional manager. A raise of almost $40,000 a year.”
“Impressive,” the man replied, blowing out the smoke slowly. “That’s what happens when you marry well. The right connections open doors. My brother is a partner at that firm. You know, a word from me, and that position is yours.”
There it was. The truth behind Michael’s success. It wasn’t his talent. It wasn’t his effort. It was Marlene’s last name. Her family’s connections.
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