Chapter 12 - Dinner at Table Four
The dining room table—usually a solemn, quiet space where I ate salads in silence while reviewing financial statements—felt completely transformed.
Mrs. Gable had outdone herself. The roasted rosemary chicken sat in the center of the mahogany table, flanked by roasted root vegetables and a warm, buttery loaf of sourdough bread. For the first time in two years, the penthouse dining room echoed with the sound of genuine conversation and laughter.
Maya didn't hold back. She ate with the healthy appetite of someone who had spent too many nights skipping meals on the streets, but her table manners were surprisingly composed, reflecting a background that had once known discipline before it fell apart.
“So, Maya,” Mrs. Gable said warmly, pouring a glass of sparkling cider into Maya’s glass. “Daniel tells me you have quite a head for mathematics.”
“Numbers don't lie, Mrs. Gable,” Maya responded smoothly, taking a sip of the cider. “People lie, balance sheets lie, and weather forecasts definitely lie. But if you follow the pattern, the math always tells you the truth.”
I watched from across the table, cutting my chicken quietly. “And what truth does your math tell you about high school dropouts living out of backpacks, Maya?”
The table went slightly still. Sophie looked between us, sensing the sudden shift in tension.
Maya didn't flinch. She set her fork down neatly on her plate, meeting my gaze with unwavering clarity.
“It tells me that the current system is optimized for people who fit inside the boxes, Mr. Harrison,” she said steadily. “When you don't fit in the box—when your parents sign away their parental rights and the state foster system loses your file in a filing cabinet—the system doesn't try to fix you. It just expects you to fall through the cracks.”
Her words hit the room with profound, sobering weight. I felt a sharp pang of guilt remembering how quickly I had judged her outside St. Jude’s Academy.
“You shouldn't have to live in the cracks, Maya,” I said, my voice dropping into a firm, earnest register. “That’s not a system failure. That’s an abandonment of responsibility.”
May you like
Maya offered a bittersweet, cynical smile. “Maybe. But survival teaches you how to build your own safety nets out of whatever is lying around on the sidewalk.”
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