My mother looked at Elias’s boots before she looked at his face. They were worn, muddy, and apparently that was enough for her to decide what kind of man he was. She pointed toward a small table outside beside the catering entrance, where rain soaked the grass and the smell from the bins drifted across the yard.
“There was no seat planned for extra guests,” she said. “We can bring you leftovers.”
I told her Elias was my husband.
She barely reacted.
Elias only looked at me and asked what I wanted to do. I stayed. Partly because leaving would have meant admitting they had won, and partly because I still wanted to believe my family would remember who I was.
Later, Aubrey approached in her designer gown. She glanced at Elias’s boots, smiled cruelly, and called him a farmhand.
Then she lifted her wineglass.
The red wine spilled across my dress.
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