His father, John Sr., a portly man with a face flushed from years of fine food and casual cruelty, let out a braying laugh. “Give them a break, son. It’s an act of charity, having them here. A cultural exchange.” His mother, Eleanor, a woman as thin and cold as a shard of ice, simply smiled, a tight, bloodless expression that was far more damning than any insult.

The simmering tension of the evening, which had been building through a hundred smaller cuts—condescending questions about my job, feigned surprise at Clara’s knowledge of fine wine, a deliberate “forgetting” of my name—finally boiled over. John, fueled by an endless river of champagne and his own deep, cavernous insecurity, saw an opportunity for a spectacular, final act of humiliation. He approached his own wife, Clara, who had turned away from the group and was leaning against the railing, trying to find a moment of peace in the cool night air.