"You helped me." Aunt Milly's expression sharpens with recognition. "Few days ago. The concierge desk. That insufferable man tried to dismiss me, and you intervened."
Oh.
Oh, that's perfect.
Jane's face clears with recognition. "The luggage. You were trying to get your bags sent up, and he said you weren't platinum level—"
"And you told him to get his act together.” Aunt Milly's mouth curves, sharp and pleased.
"You were being treated like you were invisible," Jane says, her voice firm. "That's not okay. I don't care what level anyone is."
Aunt Milly studies her for a long moment. Then she laughs, a sound like crackling paper.
"I like her," she announces to the table at large.
Mom looks like she's been hit with a two-by-four. "Aunt Milly—"
"She has spine." Aunt Milly waves a dismissive hand. "More than those vapid candidates you keep parading in front of him, Eleanor. What was the last one?”
My father coughs into his napkin.
My mother recovers quickly. "Jane may have been... helpful. But that doesn't mean she's an appropriate match for West. We know nothing about her background. Her family. Her education—"
"I'm sitting right here," Jane says quietly.
The table goes silent. I brace for impact.
My dear mom blinks. "I'm sorry?"
"I'm sitting right here," Jane repeats, louder now. "If you want to know about my background, you can ask me directly."
I watch my mother recalibrate, clearly not expecting resistance.
"Very well." Mom folds her hands. "What do your parents do, Jane?"
"My mom's dead. Overdose, seven years ago. I don't know who my father is."
The bluntness of it lands like a slap.
My mother pales. My father shifts uncomfortably.
But Jane doesn't flinch.
"I raised my younger sister," she continues. "Put her through high school, and now she's in nursing school. I run my own business. It's small. Not impressive. But it's mine."
"I see." My mom's voice is carefully neutral. "And your extended family?"
Jane shrugs. "Working class. Boston. We multiply like rabbits, if that's what you're asking."
I freeze.
So does Mom
But Aunt Milly—Aunt Milly tips her head back and cackles.
"Multiply like rabbits!" she repeats, delighted. "Well, that's refreshing. Better than Eleanor's scheduled ovulation spreadsheets."
"Aunt Milly!" My mother's voice is strangled.
