PART 2: THE WOMAN FROM LYON RETURNED

Philippe was still talking when I raised my eyes and answered him.

In perfect French.

I did not shout.

I spoke politely, using the formal tone I had learned in Lyon—the kind of politeness that allows a person to deliver a devastating correction without raising her voice.

“Forgive me, Philippe,” I began. “I have enjoyed your conversation so much that I did not want to interrupt.”

The table became completely silent.

Hélène’s fork froze in the air. Philippe slowly turned pale.

“I lived in Lyon for eight years,” I continued. “I worked on Rue Mercière and lived near Croix-Rousse. I learned French from people who did not slow down for foreigners. So I have understood everything you have said since arriving.”

Claire stared at me.

Luca covered his face with one hand.

I repeated their remarks—the rustic house, Claire’s supposed simplicity, my small life, and their concerns about our family lacking culture.

Then I became more precise.

“You sat at my daughter’s table and ate a meal she practised for weeks to honour you. You used a language you believed protected you to insult her in front of her.”

Neither of them moved.

“That is not the behaviour of people with cultural refinement,” I said. “In Lyon, we would call it the behaviour of people with money but no manners. That is one of the most common forms of poverty.”

Hélène attempted to interrupt.

“I am not finished,” I said pleasantly. “You have discussed my family for two hours. Now it is my turn, and I am giving you the courtesy of speaking in a language you understand.”