“I know a daughter who supports this plan.”
She pointed her fork at me.
“An expensive daughter.”
“A devoted daughter.”
“Those things can coexist.”
We were still laughing when I noticed the woman at the next table.
She was staring at Mom.
Not glancing.
Staring.
Her eyes moved from my mother’s face to the tiramisu and back again.
My stomach tightened.
I knew that look.
Mom hadn’t noticed yet.
I prayed she wouldn’t.
Then the woman leaned back and said loudly enough for several tables to hear:
“Maybe skip dessert this time.”
The restaurant seemed to stop breathing.
A waiter froze near the wall.
A fork stopped halfway to someone’s mouth.
Even the laughter near the bar disappeared.
My mother’s smile vanished.
That hurt more than the insult.
A second earlier, she had been happy.
Now she looked small again.
She reached for her purse.
“I think we should go.”
Anger hit me so fast that my hands started shaking.
This was exactly why she avoided restaurants.
Exactly why she had spent months hiding at home.
I was about to speak when the woman laughed again.
“You’ll thank me later.”
I stood.
“So humiliating strangers is your idea of helping?”
