Agatha sat at the dining table, cardigan drawn close, her hands clasped tightly on the table. The room was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator, and her sigh cut through it with practiced ease. She kept her hands folded, eyes steady and heavy, wearing that polished concern that always arrived just before the cut.
"It must be tiring, running around all day," she said, voice dipped in pity that cloaked itself as kindness. "Tutoring here, chasing there, only to come home empty-handed again. I see the effort, of course I do, but sometimes..." She let the words taper off, waiting for the sting to land where it always did.
"Mrs. Lambert’s boy just started at the firm downtown. And of course, my own Emma, almost same age as you, already married, working, her life in order." She smiled faintly, not cruel, only pitying, "Some people step so easily into their place, don't they? While others linger, as though waiting for the world to decide for them."
She smoothed the edge of her skirt before continuing, voice lighter but more pointed. "Your Uncle Sam told me you stopped helping him at the warehouse. He seemed surprised, said it was honest work, even if it's hard and thankless. Why would you turn something like that down? In times like these, can the unemployed really afford to be choosers?"
