“Tiffany,” I said. “I’m sorry—”
Her chin lifted a little, like she was getting ready to accept a trophy. “—that you’ve never had to stand in a grocery aisle and count the things in your cart twice.”
The room didn’t just go quiet.
It went *still*. My son closed his eyes for half a second. Tiffany blinked slowly, like a cat seeing a shape it doesn’t like.
“I’m sorry,” I went on, “that you’ve never had to put food back because the light bill came in higher than you expected. I’m sorry you’ve never stretched beef with beans so three kids could feel like they had enough. I’m sorry that the word ‘Costco’ sounds like an insult to you instead of what it really is for people like me—a lifeline with free samples on Saturdays.”
A glass chimed as someone’s hand trembled.
My son cleared his throat. “Mom—”
I lifted a hand—not to silence him, but to finish the thought that had lived in my chest for twenty years. “I’m also sorry,” I said, looking right at Tiffany, “that my son is so afraid of not belonging in *this* room that he forgot the one he came from.”
That made the chandelier ring.
Not from sound—
From silence. A fork slipped from someone’s fingers and hit a plate with the tiniest ping. It echoed up into the crystals, and they shivered like the room was breathing in.
Tiffany’s lips parted. “I— I think you’ve misunderstood—”
“No,” I said gently. “I think I’ve understood *too well*.”
I turned slightly, so I could see all of them.
Faces polished like the silver. Expressions arranged like they’d practiced in the mirror: concern, confusion, mild offense, bored politeness. “I came here glad,” I said.
“Proud. My son bought a house so big it has an echo. He has art on the walls that doesn’t even match the couch—that’s how you know you’ve made it, right?
When the couch and the art are allowed to be strangers.”
A few people let out small, nervous laughs. They didn’t know yet if they were allowed. “I walked in ready to be impressed,” I continued.
“And I was. Truly. It’s beautiful.
You’ve done… a lot.” I nodded around the room. “The floors shine. The chandelier glows.
The napkins are folded into birds that look like they’d peck at you if you unfold them wrong. The wine is imported, the plates are imported, the olives, the oil… probably the dog, if you have one.”
Someone choked on a sip of wine. “But here’s the thing,” I said.
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