“Embarrassing?” I repeated, feeling the rage begin to simmer under my skin, though my face remained serene.
“Don’t take it the wrong way,” her mother chimed in with that fake sweetness that so resembled her daughter’s. “It’s just that when you came to Khloe’s birthday party last month with that old dress and that grocery store cake… well, it made a certain impression on our guests.”
The old dress. The grocery store cake.
I had worked two extra shifts to be able to buy that cake because I knew Chloe loved strawberries. I had worn my best dress, the same pearl gray one I was wearing now, because it was the only decent thing I owned.
And still, it hadn’t been enough.
“The guests asked who you were,” Marleene continued. “It was awkward having to explain that you were Michael’s mother. Some even thought you were the help.”
Silence. A silence so heavy it seemed to crush the air at the table.
“And what is your point?” I asked, keeping my tone firm.
Marlene leaned forward. “My point, Helen, is that maybe it’s better if you keep your distance, at least at public events. At least when important people are around. We don’t want them to think that Michael comes from… well, you know, from poverty.”