Marlene smelled like expensive perfume, the kind that costs over $200. She was wearing a flawless beige dress and jewelry that sparkled so much it almost blinded me.
“You’re late, Helen,” she said, looking at her gold watch.
She called me Helen, not Mom. She never does. Just Helen, as if we were friends of the same age, as if there were no family hierarchy between us.
“The traffic was terrible,” I replied, taking a seat in the only empty chair—the one at the corner, almost as if they had wanted to hide me.
The restaurant was impressive: high ceilings, crystal chandeliers, pristine white tablecloths, the kind of place where every dish costs what some people earn in a week. I recognized some of the patrons—businessmen, local politicians, people with real money. I wondered how Michael could afford this. As far as I knew, his job at that consulting firm paid well, but not this well.
The waiter approached with the menus—black leatherbound menus with no prices listed. That’s always the sign that everything is outrageously expensive.
Marlene didn’t even open hers. She snapped her fingers.