A couple at the next table went quiet. Even the waiter slowed down.
My father shifted in his seat. “Claire, lower your voice.”
“Why?” she asked. “Didn’t your wife make sure everyone heard it when she called my mother a thief?”
My mother’s face drained. “She stole from us.”
“No,” I said. “You found the bracelet later. And you let her live with that lie.”
My father looked around the room and muttered, “Adam, enough.”
“Claire, lower your voice.”
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“No,” I said again. “Not this time.”
The club manager had stopped near the bar, frowning at our table. My mother grabbed her purse. She stood so fast her chair scraped the floor. Half the room looked over.
“Richard, we’re leaving.”
Claire rose too, calm and steady. “My mother has a name. It’s Martha.”
My father followed my mother out without another word.
I left cash on the table and stood. “I’m not taking another cent from either of you.”
Claire reached for my hand, and this time I held on first.
“My mother has a name. It’s Martha.”
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***
As we walked home, Claire pulled out a recipe from her purse. “I have my mom’s cookie recipe.”
“Thank you for bringing her back to me.” I smiled. “I know I didn’t recognize her before… so much time has passed, Claire. But now…”
“Everything’s different,” she finished for me. “Look, I know we still have a contract, but I see you differently now, Adam. Let’s… get to know each other better.”
“Maybe with a date?” I asked.
Later, as Claire handed me a warm cookie, I understood something Martha had known before I did.
Love had never lived in my parents’ money.
It had always lived in the people they believed were beneath them.
Love had never lived in my parents’ money.
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