That Friday evening, I wore a plain navy dress with low heels and the silver watch my husband gave me on our twentieth anniversary, choosing nothing flashy or attention seeking. The Dalton family was already seated when I arrived, their table covered with crystal glasses and carefully arranged smiles that looked more strategic than welcoming.
Scott greeted Abigail with a quick kiss and nodded at me, while his mother Diane Dalton looked me over from head to toe in a single efficient glance. The appetizers had barely been cleared when his father Howard Dalton straightened his tie, Diane folded her hands neatly, and Scott slid a sealed envelope across the table toward me.
For a moment, no one spoke, and the envelope sat between us like something formal disguised as politeness. I looked at each of them calmly before picking it up without opening it, noticing Diane’s small smile that tried to appear kind while hiding something much sharper.
“We thought it would be easier this way,” she said in a gentle tone that did not match her eyes.
“Easier than what exactly,” I asked while holding the envelope in my hand.