The saleswoman cleared her throat. “Shall I hold these items, then?” she asked, glancing between the three of us. “No need,” I said pleasantly, before either of them could speak. “The ladies will decide what they can actually afford.” Melanie’s face flushed a deep red. She leaned toward me and dropped her voice to the sharp whisper she used when she wanted to scold without an audience hearing. “Mom, what are you doing? This is humiliating. Just pay and we’ll sort it out in the car.” “That’s what you said at brunch,” I answered, at full volume. “And the spa. And the wine shop. We never did sort it out, Melanie. Not once in six months.”

Denise slowly lifted the cashmere wrap from her shoulders and set it back on the counter, her practiced warmth gone entirely. She had come to this shop believing she was watching her daughter-in-law’s mother happily bankroll an afternoon of luxury. Now she was standing in front of other customers with nothing to pay for the items she’d draped over herself like she owned them. “Well,” she said stiffly, “this is very awkward, Melanie.” “It’s about to get more so,” I said, and I reached into my purse, not for a card, but for a folded sheet of paper I had printed that very morning, because I had known, walking in, exactly how this trip would end.