The waiter nodded and walked away. I was still there like a ghost, like someone who had been erased from the equation but who, for some cruel reason, still occupied space in the chair.
Marlene’s mother leaned forward, looking at me with a mix of curiosity and condescension. “Helen dear, what do you do for work currently? Or are you already retired?”
It was a trap. I knew it immediately. If I said I was retired, it would confirm their narrative that I was an old woman with no purpose. If I said I worked, they would probably mock the kind of work I did.
But before I could answer, Marleene spoke for me.
“Helen has done a little bit of everything. Cleaning, cooking, that sort of thing. Honest work. Nothing to be ashamed of, of course.”
The way she said honest work sounded like the exact opposite. It sounded like contempt, like superiority, like thank God I never had to lower myself to that.
“Admirable,” Marlene’s father said, but his tone was condescending. “Hard work should always be respected. Though, of course, we made sure Marleene had every opportunity so she wouldn’t have to go through that.”