I listened from behind a column.
I didn’t correct her.
I should have.
For the next six years, I became Roland’s wife with “no family.”
And Beverly never let me forget it.
To her friends, I was “the teacher.”
She described my upbringing as “very modest” in a tone that made modesty sound embarrassing.
She gave me cookbooks at Christmas.
One year, she bought me a guide called something like Running an Elegant Household on a Budget.
She corrected my table manners.
She frequently reminded me how fortunate I was to marry into the Tran family.
The irony was that they weren’t wealthy.
Roland’s late father had owned a dry-cleaning business.
Beverly sold it after his death.
They were comfortable.
Nice home in Dunwoody.
Lexus in the driveway.
But Beverly treated me as though I had been rescued from poverty.
And Roland allowed it.
Whenever she said something insulting, he laughed.
Changed the subject.
Or later told me,
“That’s just Mom. She doesn’t mean anything by it.”
When I wanted to continue teaching, Beverly told me Roland earned enough for both of us.
When I wanted to keep my battered old couch, she said it looked like something from a thrift store.
