My father introduced me as “the maid” at Thanksgiving dinner to 14 guests. “One daughter saves lives, the other scrubs toilets,” he laughed. The billionaire guest dropped his fork. “She’s not your maid, Richard. She’s my boss.
“One daughter is a doctor, the other one is a maid,” my father announced, his voice booming with a jovial cruelty that echoed off the vaulted ceilings of our Milbrook estate. He raised his crystal glass, the amber liquid catching the light of the chandelier, as fourteen guests chuckled into their linen napkins. It was Thanksgiving, a day for gratitude, yet my father had chosen it as a stage for my public execution.
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