The entire room seemed to breathe to the rhythm of discreet jazz.
The soft lighting gently glided across the perfectly ironed white tablecloths. The wine glasses sparkled like jewels under the pendant lamps. The restaurant was one of those places you don’t visit often, but you remember for a long time.
A place for special occasions.
Yet, at that table, it was not a celebration.
It was a demonstration.
And I was the target.
I remained seated in my corner of the table, my hands folded in my lap. In front of me, a simple glass of tap water. Nothing else.
Just inches away, plates of lobster were stacked in front of the other guests. Melted butter glistened in the light, and glasses of white wine were filled and emptied in an elegant ballet.
But in front of me, nothing.
Marlene raised her fork with a satisfied smile.
— We don’t want Mom to overeat.
She spoke loudly, so that everyone could hear.
His parents laughed softly.
My son, Michael, didn’t even look up from his plate.
“Mom has always been… simple,” he said calmly.
Simple.
The word hung in the air.
Simple.
As if an entire life could be summed up by that one word.
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