Not “Lena.” Not “my eldest.” Not “my brilliant software engineer daughter, the one who rebuilt a failing division from scratch.” Just my other daughter. A spare.
The women turned toward me as one. Their eyes were polite, assessing, and already slightly bored.
“Oh,” said a graceful woman in navy, her hair swept into an elegant chignon. Her pearls glittered like punctuation marks. “The one who works with computers.”
“Software engineering,” I said, because the words were a small spine I could straighten.
“How nice.” Her smile didn’t quite move her eyes. They slid over my dress—simple black, nothing remarkable, bought because it fit and didn’t demand attention—then drifted away. “Tessa says you work from home. That must be so convenient.”
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