It was no longer awkward.
It felt fragile.
Karen whispered, “Do you know what I kept thinking while I was sitting there?”
“What?”
“That nobody knows me.”
I turned toward her.
She continued before I could answer.
“Everyone knows Karen Mercer, Daniel’s mother. Michael’s wife. The woman who brings pasta salad. The woman who remembers birthdays. The woman who sends thank-you cards.”
Her eyes remained closed.
“But I kept trying to remember the last time someone asked me what I wanted.”
The words hit harder than I expected.
“Maybe they assumed you’d tell them.”
“Women like me aren’t supposed to need anything.”
“That sounds like something women like you tell themselves.”
Her eyes opened.
For a moment, she simply stared at me.
“Women like me?”
I realized how that sounded.
“I meant…”
“Yes?”
“Competent women.”
Her lips twitched.
“Excellent recovery.”
“Thank you.”
“I almost threw you out of the car.”
