“Know your place,” my son said. I simply replied, “Understood,” and when the cook came, there was silence at the table.

 

Because this story didn’t begin today, but years ago, when I decided that becoming a mother meant giving up everything. And that’s exactly what I did.

Michael is my only son. I raised him alone after his father left us when he was just five years old.

For years, I worked three jobs at once. I cleaned houses, waited tables, and cooked in other people’s kitchens. All so he could have what I never had: an education, opportunities, a future.

I paid for his entire university education, every semester, every book, every cup of coffee he drinks with his friends during his studies. I supported him when he changed his major twice. I supported him when he met Marlene and told me she was the woman of his dreams. I even supported him when she saw me as an obstacle in her perfect upper-middle-class life.

I never asked for anything in return. Well, that’s not entirely true. I asked for respect. I asked to be treated like his mother, not like an employee who had already finished her job. But obviously, that was too much to ask.

The invitation arrived a week ago. Michael called me, which was unusual, since lately he’d only been sending me short, distant messages, like, “How are you?” or “See you later.” His voice sounded strangely friendly as he said he and Marlene wanted to invite me to dinner “to reconnect,” he said.

“We felt like we’d drifted apart, Mom. We want to make up for it.”

How naive I was to believe him.

I put on my nicest dress: a pearl-gray one. Simple, but elegant. Nothing flashy. I’ve never liked being the center of attention. I fixed my hair. I put on a little makeup. I wanted to look good for my son, to show him that, despite being 64, I was still his mother, the woman who had given everything for him.

When I arrived at the restaurant, everyone was already seated. Michael, Marlene, and, to my surprise, her parents as well.

Four people were waiting for me at a table clearly set for five. They greeted me with tentative kisses that didn’t touch my skin. Marlene smelled of an expensive perfume, one that costs over $200. She wore a flawless beige dress and jewelry that sparkled so brightly it almost blinded me.

“You’re late, Helen,” she said, glancing at her gold wristwatch.

She called me Helen, not Mom. She never does. Just Helen, as if we were equals, as if there were no family hierarchy between us.

“The traffic was terrible,” I replied, taking the only free chair on the corner, almost as if they were trying to hide me.

The restaurant was impressive. High ceilings, crystal chandeliers, pristine white tablecloths—a place where every dish costs as much as some people earn in a week. I recognized some of the guests—businesspeople, local politicians, people with serious money. I wondered how Michael could afford it. As far as I knew, he earned a good living at his consulting firm, but not that much.

The waiter brought the menus. Black leather menus with no prices. That’s always a good sign.

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