“Four lobsters,” Michael corrected her gently, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye.
Marlene looked at him, confused, then followed his gaze to me. And then she smiled. That smile—the same one she uses when she’s about to stick the knife in.
“Oh, right,” she said as if she had just remembered I existed. “Four lobsters.”
She turned to the waiter and added, raising her voice just enough to sound casual, but so everyone could hear, “We don’t provide extra food. Just water for her.”
The waiter blinked, uncomfortable. He looked at me, expecting me to say something, to order for myself. But before I could open my mouth, Michael intervened.
“It’s just that Mom already ate before she came, right?”
His tone was soft but firm. It wasn’t a question. It was a command in disguise.
I felt something break inside me. It wasn’t dramatic. There was no sad background music or slow motion. Just a silent crack somewhere in my chest where hope used to be.
“Of course,” I said finally. “Just water is fine.”
Marlene smiled, satisfied, and leaned back in her chair. The waiter nodded and walked away quickly, probably relieved to escape the tension.
Marlene’s parents didn’t even seem to notice the exchange. They were too busy admiring the place, commenting on how exclusive it all was.
And so the dinner began.
Well, their dinner.
I just had my glass of water—clear, cold, silent—just as I was apparently supposed to be.
The lobsters arrived ten minutes later: four enormous steaming plates, with that aroma of butter and herbs that filled the whole table. The waiter placed them carefully in front of each of them—Marlene, Michael, and her parents, who hadn’t even said a word to me since I arrived.
Not a hello. Not a how are you.
Nothing.
It was as if I were invisible, or worse, as if I were part of the furniture.
Marlene was the first to crack the shell of her lobster. The crunch echoed in the awkward silence that had settled. She took a generous piece of white meat, dipped it in melted butter, and brought it to her mouth with deliberate slowness. She closed her eyes as if she were tasting something divine.
Theatrical. Everything about her was always so theatrical.
“Exquisite,” she murmured delicately, dabbing the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “Absolutely exquisite. This place never disappoints.”