But this message—sent through a simple text to David first, then forwarded to me—was oddly plain.
Would you and Catherine join me for tea on Sunday? Just us.
David stared at his phone like it might be a prank.
“She wants you alone?” he asked.
I shrugged, cautious. “Maybe she wants to stage a polite apology. Or maybe she wants to reassert control.”
My mother, as always, stayed calm. “We’ll go,” she said. “And we’ll listen.”
On Sunday, Margaret greeted us at her door without her usual performance. No extra staff hovering. No formal sitting room with stiff furniture.
She led us to a sun-dappled patio, where the table was set with simple china instead of her heavy “special occasion” set.
I noticed because Margaret didn’t do simple unless it was intentional.
She sat, fingers resting on her cup as if she needed something steady.
“I’ve been doing some thinking,” she said, and her voice carried a hesitance I’d never heard from her.
My mother waited, patient and quiet.
Margaret continued, “About first impressions. About hidden depths. About how we present ourselves… and what we choose to reveal.”
I glanced at my mother, surprised.