Michael swallowed his bite before answering. “Mom has always been simple, humble. You know, she comes from a different generation.”
“Humble,” Marlene repeated. And there was something venomous in the way she pronounced that word. “Yes, definitely humble.”
I wanted to say something. I wanted to scream at them that humble didn’t mean invisible, that simple wasn’t a synonym for stupid. But I held back because something inside me told me to wait, to observe, to let them keep digging their own grave.
Marlene’s mother poured herself more wine. The bottle was already half empty.“These must be such difficult times for people your age, Helen. With no stable income, not enough savings. It’s a shame the older generation didn’t know how to plan for their future better.”
There it was—the first direct blow, disguised as concern, but it was a blow nonetheless, implying that I was a burden, that I was poor, that I hadn’t done anything with my life.
“Mom gets by just fine,” Michael said, but his tone was defensive, weak, as if he didn’t believe what he was saying himself.