Another jab. Another stab disguised as a casual comment. I wondered how many more would come before this torture ended.
Her father ordered a cognac. Michael ordered a whiskey. The women ordered more wine. I was still with my water. No one offered me anything else. No one asked if I wanted at least a coffee. It was as if they had collectively decided that I didn’t even deserve basic courtesies.
Marlene’s father, lighting a cigar that the waiter had brought him, said, “Your wife told us you’re considering that promotion at the company. That would mean more responsibilities, right?”
My son nodded, straightening in his chair. “Yes, sir. I’d be the regional manager. A raise of almost $40,000 a year.”
“Impressive,” the man replied, blowing out the smoke slowly. “That’s what happens when you marry well. The right connections open doors. My brother is a partner at that firm. You know, a word from me, and that position is yours.”
There it was. The truth behind Michael’s success. It wasn’t his talent. It wasn’t his effort. It was Marlene’s last name. Her family’s connections.