“Yes.” She literally snapped her fingers and said, “Five lobster thermodors, the large ones, and a bottle of your best white wine.”
“Four lobsters,” Michael corrected her gently, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye.
Marlene looked at him, confused, then followed his gaze to me. And then she smiled. That smile—the same one she uses when she’s about to stick the knife in.
“Oh, right,” she said as if she had just remembered I existed. “Four lobsters.”
She turned to the waiter and added, raising her voice just enough to sound casual, but so everyone could hear, “We don’t provide extra food. Just water for her.”
The waiter blinked, uncomfortable. He looked at me, expecting me to say something, to order for myself. But before I could open my mouth, Michael intervened.
“It’s just that Mom already ate before she came, right?”
His tone was soft but firm. It wasn’t a question. It was a command in disguise.
I felt something break inside me. It wasn’t dramatic. There was no sad background music or slow motion. Just a silent crack somewhere in my chest where hope used to be.
“Of course,” I said finally. “Just water is fine.”