It was a Friday night, the restaurant buzzing with chatter and the clatter of dishes. I had just finished balancing a heavy tray when I turned toward Table Seven—and there she was. Margaret, in a sleek navy dress, pearls glinting at her neck, her posture as rigid as ever. She wasn’t alone. Two of her closest friends, women just as sharp-tongued, flanked her.

My heart sank. I prayed she wouldn’t recognize me in the dim lighting, but her eyes landed on me instantly. They widened in disbelief, then narrowed with unmistakable glee.

“Well, if it isn’t my daughter-in-law,” she said loudly enough for the entire section to hear. “Serving food? My, my. Isn’t this a surprise?”

I froze, tray in hand, cheeks burning. Nearby diners turned their heads, curious.

Margaret’s friends chuckled. One leaned in and whispered, but not softly enough: “Didn’t she marry that financial guy? I thought he made good money.”

“Oh, he does,” Margaret replied smoothly, her eyes never leaving mine. “Which makes this all the more… puzzling.” She gestured around the restaurant. “Some women just can’t resist playing dress-up, I suppose. Pretending they need to work when really they should be at home. Or perhaps… maybe Michael isn’t doing as well as he says?”