Melissa had outdone herself with decorations, rearranging my collected treasures into what she called “beach house chic.” My grandmother’s quilt was now a casual throw blanket. My award plaques were tucked away as “too corporate.”
The final insult came when I saw Brandon giving a tour, saying, “This is the family property,” and adding with a laugh, “I’m handling management now that Mom’s getting on in years.”
Getting on in years.
I chose my outfit carefully: a simple black dress I’d worn during hostile corporate negotiations, the kind of dress that says, I’m not here to beg.
When I stepped onto the deck, conversations slowed. Not because I demanded attention, but because there’s something about a calm woman in a black dress at her own house that makes people pause.
Brandon beamed. “Mom,” he said, “perfect timing. We’re just getting started.”
Patricia called from the kitchen doorway, voice sharp with entitlement. “Eleanor, check on the appetizers. I think they’re running low.”
I ignored her.
I walked to the center of the deck and lifted my voice just enough to cut through the noise.
“Excuse me, everyone,” I said. “If I could have just a moment.”