I am seventy two years old, and over time I have grown used to speaking less and listening more because older women are often expected to become background music in their own families.
In the middle of a story about his new clients, my son in law Anthony Bennett leaned back in his chair, laughed loudly, and said, “Is this useless old lady planning to clear the whole table again?”
A few relatives tried to hide their reactions behind their glasses, but several people laughed openly as if the comment were harmless entertainment rather than humiliation.
No one corrected him, and no one told him to lower his voice or choose kinder words, and I felt the blood rush up my neck and settle hot against my cheeks.
It was not the first time he had joked about my age or my appetite, yet it was the first time he had done it in front of the entire family without a trace of embarrassment.
I turned my eyes toward Rachel and waited for her to speak, hoping she would say something simple like that was enough or that he should apologize.
She lowered her gaze to her plate and pushed a piece of chicken around with her fork as if intense concentration on her food might make the moment disappear.