She exchanged a look with my father. Bethany put her phone face down, which told me more than anything else.
“We know about your apartment,” Mom said.
The restaurant noise shifted around me, silverware, soft voices, laughter from the bar. My face did not change.
“My condominium,” I said.
Dad’s jaw tightened. “Your fancy new place downtown.”
“Condominium,” I repeated, because precision is sometimes the only defense available before anger arrives.
My mother inhaled through her nose. “Fine. Your condominium. The point is, we had to hear about it from Barbara Hendricks at the grocery store. Her son works in real estate. Can you imagine how embarrassing that was? Standing there by the produce and finding out my own daughter bought a luxury property from someone else?”
I looked at her for a moment, letting the shape of that complaint settle. Not congratulations. Not surprise. Not curiosity. Embarrassment. Because my private achievement had made her look uninformed.
“I wanted privacy,” I said.
“Privacy from your family?” Dad asked.
“Yes.”
Bethany gave a short laugh. “At least she’s honest.”