“My sisters and I want to take your mother to dinner,” she said. “A proper first meeting. Our treat.”
The second she named the restaurant, I paused.
It was one of those places people posted about more than they actually ate at. White tablecloths. Tiny portions. Too many forks. A wine list that looked like a mortgage application.
That annoyed me more than I let on.
My mom did not like places like that. Not because she was scared of them. She just hated anything stiff or performative.
I said, “That place isn’t really her style.”
Karen laughed. “That’s exactly why we’re inviting her. She should enjoy something elegant for once.”
That annoyed me more than I let on.
Still, she kept repeating the same line.
“Our treat. I insist.”
I almost told her not to go. I should have.
My mom was touched when I told her.
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