"Then you could have called me," I said, "or asked me to have lunch with you."
"You hardly visit anymore," she replied, immediately shifting the subject to the accusation she knew would hurt.
I thought of the holiday meals when she corrected my clothes, my income, or my apartment before I removed my coat.
I thought of the phone calls in which she asked about Vanessa and ended the conversation before I could discuss myself.
For years, I had gone home determined to be generous and returned to my own life feeling smaller than before.
Eventually, I began limiting visits instead of arguing about how much disrespect a daughter ought to tolerate.
"I visit when we're able to treat one another kindly," I said, and the simplicity of it startled even me.
My mother's lips tightened, because she had always called my boundaries evidence that I was selfish.
"You make everything sound so dramatic," she said, turning back toward Martin for an approving look.
He did not give her one, and that small refusal seemed to unsettle her more than my words.
"Olivia's right to decide how she's treated isn't a restaurant issue," he said, "but respectful behavior here is."
Diane stared at him as if good manners had suddenly become a personal insult.
"I didn't ask you to lecture me," she replied, and Martin inclined his head without retreating.
Vanessa drew a shaky breath, and I recognized the expression of someone standing at the edge of an old family rule.
"I typed the request," she said, "because Mom told me exactly what to write."
Her husband closed his eyes briefly, as though the missing pieces of the morning had finally fallen into place.
"You told me Olivia was still serving here," Vanessa continued, facing Diane now instead of looking at me.
"I said she worked here," my mother corrected, treating the distinction as though it erased everything else.
"You laughed about making her take our order," Vanessa said, her voice firmer than before.
My mother's expression flashed with warning, a silent instruction my sister had obeyed since we were children.
Watching Vanessa hesitate took me back to the days when agreeing with Diane was the easiest way to stay safe.
I wanted to rescue her from that look, but the moment belonged to Vanessa, and she needed to choose her own words.
"I should have refused," she told me, and I heard real shame beneath the admission.
I could not offer immediate forgiveness, because sincerity did not erase the weeks she had carried this plan in silence.
"You could have asked me what I actually do," I said, feeling my voice catch for the first time.
"I know," Vanessa answered, her eyes filling, "and I am sorry."
My mother gave a sharp little laugh that silenced both of us.