That sounded exactly like Margaret.
Evelyn smiled sadly.
She liked privacy, especially then.
I remembered sitting with Margaret in my car outside an office building in Dublin.
She clutched her purse with both hands and said, “They’re going to take one look at my age and send me home.”
I told her, “Then let them look twice.”
She went inside.
I waited nearly 2 hours because she was afraid to come back out alone.
She got the job.
Evelyn told me Margaret had talked about that day for years.
I swallowed.
I didn’t know.
She died 18 months ago.
I lowered my eyes.
I’m sorry.
Thank you.
Then Evelyn said, “Before she died, she told me Clareire Witmore gave me my life back without making me feel stupid for losing it.”
It hit harder than expected.
I looked away.
My fingers found the blue cloth around my wrist and twisted it.
Evelyn noticed.
You keep worrying that poor thing to death.
I glanced down.
Long story.
She smiled.
We have 10 minutes.
So I told her.
Not everything.
Just enough.
The gown.
Patricia.
Dinner.
Mark.
When I finished, Evelyn stayed still for a moment.
Your family did that last night.
Yes.
She looked at the fabric around my wrist.
Well.
At first, that was all.
Then she told me tonight wasn’t about proving anything to them.
I nodded.
She leaned back.
Let them do their own arithmetic.
For the first time that day, I thought I could.
