Margaret’s gaze flicked to me. “Catherine, when we first met, I made assumptions based on your current life. I never imagined your past experiences.”
My mother nodded gently. “Yes.”
Margaret’s jaw tightened, as if swallowing pride was physically uncomfortable. “And I judged Sarah through the same limited lens.”
The admission hung in the air like a fragile ornament.
Margaret took a breath. “The truth is…” She paused. “Before I married into the Thompson family, my background was much closer to yours than anyone in my social circle knows.”
My heart thudded.
Margaret Thompson—queen of old money standards—looked suddenly like a woman standing at the edge of a confession.
“My father owned a hardware store,” she said quietly. “I worked as a sales clerk through college.”
I blinked, stunned.
Margaret’s gaze dropped to her tea cup. “When I met Philip Thompson, I was determined to fit into his world perfectly. I studied how the right people dressed, spoke, entertained. I erased every trace of my origins until I convinced even myself I’d always belonged.”
Her voice trembled slightly, the first crack in her armor I’d ever witnessed.