“I was having tea,” I said calmly.
Genevieve blinked. Benjamin stared. Clara kept hold of my hand.
“No, I mean with the bank,” Benjamin said, louder now.
“Are you referring to my bank?” I asked.
His face reddened. “That is not fair of you to do.”
There it was: the anthem of people whose privileges had suddenly stopped.
I led Clara to the sofa and tucked my mother’s handmade quilt around her.
“Sweetheart, why do you not sit here and relax for a moment?” I suggested.
Genevieve eyed the quilt as though measuring whether Clara’s shoes might touch it. “Clara, please ensure that you stay clean.”
“She is seven years old,” I reminded her.
“She perfectly understands manners,” Genevieve snapped.
“She understands far more than you think she does,” I retorted.
