"Because I knew the suit," she said. "Because I'd assumed he'd thrown it away twenty years ago. Because he walked across that lobby in it and looked me right in the eye, and I understood that he'd kept it all this time to wear on exactly that day, in front of exactly me." She looked at the cold fireplace. "He'd told the judge he'd get a better one when you were old enough to need him to look good. You were standing there in navy, about to go work for the firm Preston Hargis's partners ended up in, with me on one side of you, and he came in wearing the eleven-dollar suit. It was the most eloquent thing anyone has ever said to me, Elaine. And he never opened his mouth."
"And then I opened mine."
She was quiet.
"You heard me say it," I said. "You heard me say exactly what your lawyer said to him. And you didn't say anything. You didn't tell me. Not at the Palace, not at lunch. You asked me whether he'd said anything about the suit, and when I said no you just let it go."
"Yes."
"Why?"
She took a long time. The house was very quiet. Somewhere in the kitchen Marta was running water.
"Because I wanted you to like me," she said finally. "Because for eight years you've come to this house and sat at my table and let me teach you things, and every Saturday I've thought, she doesn't know, she doesn't know, and every Saturday I've been grateful, and ashamed of being grateful. If I'd told you, you'd have had to decide what I was. I didn't want you to decide. I'm seventy-four. I wanted a little longer." She looked at me. "You can decide now. I'll understand."
"Why did you drop the appeal?"