One afternoon, she poured herself a glass of wine and sat at the vanity, talking as I dusted the picture frames behind her. “I’m hosting another luncheon,” she said. “The mayor’s wife adores me. She says I have the most refined home in the neighborhood.”
I murmured something polite and dusted the picture frame behind her that showed a younger Diane standing beside another woman, my mother. I paused, pretending to wipe the glass. Diane followed my gaze. Her expression softened for the briefest moment before she sighed.
“I had a niece once,” she said suddenly. “My sister’s child. Poor thing. Her parents died young, and I tried to raise her, but she was impossible. Wild, ungrateful. I did everything for her, and she just… turned on me.”
My hand froze mid-dust. “You had a niece?” I asked, keeping my tone neutral.
“Had,” she said with a sigh. “Lost track of her years ago. Sometimes, family just… disappoints you.”
I swallowed hard. “That must’ve been difficult.”
“It was,” she said, swirling her wine. “Some people just don’t appreciate sacrifice.”
I smiled tightly and turned away before she could see the look in my eyes.
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