“You are right, Laurent, that grandchildren should know where they come from.” My French was clean, unhurried, the accent of someone who had argued with Lyon landlords for eight years. The deck went utterly silent. Colette’s wine glass stopped halfway to her lips. Laurent’s fork clicked against porcelain. “So allow me to tell you where my daughter comes from,” I continued, holding his stunned gaze. “From a woman who moved to France alone at twenty-two, waited tables in Lyon, and built a life in a language that was not her own, without a family name to open a single door.”

Sophie stared at me as though a stranger had taken her mother’s chair. Mathis pressed a hand to his mouth to hide a smile. Colette recovered first, forcing a laugh. “Eleanor, you speak French. How charming. We had no idea.” I turned to her slowly. “That was obvious,” I said. “You had no idea. That is precisely why you spoke so freely.” Laurent set down his fork, his confident face finally uncertain, and reached for his water as if his throat had gone dry.