But she had received a Christmas card from her three months ago.
“Your wife’s mother paid enough of her tuition that I remember signing checks from the employee scholarship fund to cover the rest.”
Amber’s face went pale.
Marcus looked at her.
“You got help?”
Amber’s voice sharpened.
“I earned that scholarship.”
“Yes,” Ruth said. “You did.”
Amber looked surprised.
Ruth continued.
“You worked hard. You earned excellent grades. Your mother worked harder.”
Amber’s eyes flashed.
“You don’t know anything about her.”
“I know she worked breakfast shift six days a week and cleaned offices at night.”
“That doesn’t make her a good mother.”
“No.”
Ruth let the word sit.
Amber expected resistance.
She did not get it.
Ruth had no interest in romanticizing poverty or motherhood.
Hard work did not erase harm.
Providing food did not erase harsh words.
Sacrifice did not guarantee tenderness.
But lying was still lying.
Marcus put both hands on the back of his chair.
“Why did you tell me she was dead?”
Amber looked at the guests again.
“Can we please leave?”
Marcus shook his head.
“You can leave if you want.”
Her face tightened.
“Marcus.”
“I’m asking one question.”
“And I’m saying this is private.”
Ruth looked down at the untouched food on the plate Amber had returned.
Her appetite was gone.
The waiter still stood nearby, uncomfortable but alert.
Ruth nodded toward him.
“Calvin, would you please bring the check to my office?”
Amber’s head snapped toward her.
