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David ate with appetite. Mr.
Harold complimented me on the casserole. But she… she looked at everything as if she were evaluating the house, the furniture, me. When they left, Sarah hugged me at the door.
I smiled and nodded. But something inside me had already noticed that look. That way of making me feel less.
Still, I kept silent, because a mother does anything for her daughter’s happiness—even swallowing the first warning signs. The wedding was beautiful. I paid for Sarah’s dress—a gorgeous design she had seen in a boutique downtown.
Five thousand dollars I took out of my savings without a second thought. Mrs. Carol organized the reception at an elegant ballroom.
Everything was impeccable: white flowers, gold lights, a dessert table like something out of a magazine. But when it was time for the thank-yous, David only mentioned his parents. “Thank you, Mom, Dad, for giving us this unforgettable party.”
Sarah looked for me from the head table.
I smiled and raised my glass. It’s fine, my love, I told her—moving my lips without a sound. But it wasn’t fine.
And I was starting to understand it. Months later, when Sarah and David had been married for one year, they invited me to lunch at their rented apartment. It was small, but they had decorated it with care.
“Mom, we have to tell you something,” Sarah said, taking David’s hand. “We want to buy a house,” David continued. “But we can’t afford the full down payment.”
“Mom, do you think you could help us?”
I had worked thirty-two years as an accountant in an imports company. I had saved every dollar with discipline. I had been living alone since my husband died ten years earlier.
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