The implication hung in the air like smoke.

Laughter rippled from the table. My hands trembled, but I forced myself to keep moving. I set down their glasses of water with as much dignity as I could muster. “Can I take your order?” I asked quietly.

But Margaret wasn’t done. “Tell me,” she pressed, her voice honeyed with m.0.c.k concern. “Do you tell my son you’re here? Or is this your little secret hobby?”

Heat crawled up my neck. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to scream. Instead, I smiled stiffly, scribbled their orders, and hurried away as quickly as possible.

For the rest of their meal, she continued making remarks whenever I approached. “Careful with those plates, dear. Wouldn’t want to drop them in front of everyone.” “Such a shame—your hands used to look so nice, now they’re all rough from work.” Every word was designed to cut, to remind me of my place.