Chapter 14: The Microphone

I did not walk to the stage.

I stayed beside the round table with the microphone in my hand and the flowers between me and my aunt.

I wanted her close enough to see her face.

"Good evening," I said.

My voice came back at me from every corner of the ballroom.

"My name is Abby. I used to clean the carpet at parties like this one, on my knees, while people stepped over my hands."

Someone near the back gasped.

"For twenty-two years a check came to my aunt's house every month."

"It was nine thousand dollars. It came from the woman whose name is on that banner."

I pointed with the mic at the gold letters above the stage.

The foundation chair, still standing at the side, put her hand to her mouth.

"Two hundred and sixty-four checks. That is two million, three hundred and seventy-six thousand dollars."

"It was paid to keep me hidden from my father."

The silence in the room had weight.

Marla rose, smooth and sorrowful, one hand on her pearls.

"May I?" she said to the room. "I think someone should say something kind."

Nobody stopped her.

That was the thing about her.

Nobody ever had.

"Abigail is a troubled young woman," Marla said. "We took her in as a baby when her mother died. Yes, there was help, from a generous family."

"It paid for her clothes, her schooling, her care."

"She has been poorly for years, and I will not say what she's said about us. It is not her fault."

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