“And she chose your son,” I said. “He is kind, and he is ashamed of how you are behaving. That tells me you raised him better than you are behaving tonight.”
I explained that their grandchildren would not grow up believing Brussels mattered more than Rochester.
They would learn that their grandmother once travelled alone to a foreign country with one suitcase and created a life for herself.
“That is the cultural foundation I intend to give them,” I finished. “I believe it will serve them well.”
Then I picked up my fork and switched back to English.
“This is excellent, sweetheart,” I told Claire. “The sauce is perfect.”
The silence that followed was deeply satisfying.
But Philippe did not storm away.
Instead, he placed down his knife and fork.
“Madame Doyle,” he said in English, so Claire could understand, “you are right. I am ashamed.”
I had expected anger or wounded pride.
