was a suitcase left in the wrong lobby. “You trying to keep up.”
My father walked out before I could answer. Crisp golf shirt, expensive watch, stern expression. My mother followed in a flowing resort dress, her face soft with that rehearsed sympathy she used when she wanted to hurt me gently.
“Maya,” Dad said. “We need to be honest.”
I almost laughed.
My family loved honesty when it was pointed at me.
“You’re a preschool teacher,” he continued. “There’s no shame in that, but this is a luxury resort.
