The Lease on Pride

 

The sofa was white. Not cream, not ivory, but a blinding, optical white that looked like it would stain if you even looked at it with a negative thought. It was Italian leather, low-slung, and cost more than the tuition for a year at a state university.

I sat on the edge of it, trying to make myself small.

My name is Margaret. I am seventy years old. I wear comfortable shoes and cardigans that I knit myself. To the guests swirling around the cavernous living room of the new Malibu mansion, I was an anomaly. A smudge of gray in a room full of glitter.

This was the housewarming party for my son, Richard, and his wife, Bella.

“The Glass Box,” Bella called it. It was a architectural marvel of steel and glass overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Five million dollars.

Richard was a “consultant.” Bella was a “lifestyle curator.” Neither of them actually produced anything, but they were very good at spending money. Money that Richard assumed came from his “hard work” and savvy investments.