With each visit after that, I learned something new about her, like how she bragged about her husband’s business contacts, how she talked down to waitstaff, and how she never lifted a finger in her own house. Everything about her was a performance, but the cracks were starting to show.
The following week, she was preparing for her big charity luncheon. Her husband was out of town, and she was running around the house like a commander before battle.
“Do NOT track dirt near the dining room!” she snapped. “Those rugs cost more than your salary!”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said calmly, even though I wanted to throw the mop at her feet.
“Polish the silver,” she added sharply. “And make sure the crystal sparkles. The mayor’s wife is coming, and I will not tolerate embarrassment.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
When the guests arrived, I stayed in the kitchen, as usual. But voices travel in houses like that.
“My husband and I are blessed,” Diane announced, her tone syrupy sweet. “We’ve worked hard for everything we have.” I nearly dropped a plate. Then one of the guests said, “Oh, Diane, you always were lucky. Your sister’s insurance helped you get started, didn’t it?”
The room went silent. “That was decades ago,” Diane said. “I made something of it.”
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