She blinked at me like the refrigerator had grown legs. Melissa came into the kitchen with the black apron over her forearm and held it out toward my mother, her eyes locked on mine.

“Guests arrive in thirty minutes,” she said sweetly. “We all have to play our parts.”

My mother’s hands twitched upward — fourteen months of conditioning firing on cue. I moved first and took the apron out of Melissa’s hands.

“I’ll be playing Mom’s part tonight,” I said, and tied the strings around my waist.

Melissa’s confusion resolved into satisfaction. She turned away to light the candles, pleased that the help had fallen in line. She was too pleased to consider that the person pouring the drinks hears everything said at the table.

Invisible is the best seat in any room.