“I have no reason to attend,” she said.
My mother, sitting calmly across from her at our dining table, sipped tea. “Elena wants you there,” she said.
Margaret stiffened. “That’s precisely why I shouldn’t go.”
I watched her carefully. “Because you’re afraid she’ll see through you?” I asked gently.
Margaret’s eyes flashed, then softened. “Yes,” she admitted, surprising herself with the honesty. “Or worse… she already has.”
My mother’s voice stayed calm. “Elena isn’t interested in humiliating you,” she said. “She’s interested in freeing you from the performance.”
Margaret looked down at her hands. “I don’t know how,” she said quietly.
David reached for her hand. “Then learn,” he said.
Margaret’s throat moved as she swallowed. “Fine,” she said, voice clipped. “I’ll go.”
Chicago was cool and bright, the kind of day that made the city feel clean. The exhibition was held in a gallery with white walls and careful lighting. Dresses stood on mannequins like sculptures.
Elena greeted us with her usual effortless warmth. She kissed my mother’s cheek, hugged me, squeezed David’s shoulder, then turned to Margaret.
“Maggie,” she said, eyes sparkling. “You came.”
Margaret lifted her chin. “I did.”