Nobody spoke for a long moment. I sat silently, and for once, I did not offer anything to fill the quiet. Then Matthieu set down his napkin and told his parents, in English, that if they did not tell Anna the truth, he would. Isabelle finally did, haltingly, her accent suddenly heavier. Anna listened without interrupting. When Isabelle finished, my daughter quietly said, “I worked very hard on this dinner,” and walked out onto the deck.

Matthieu followed her. I stayed at the table. Isabelle surprised me by speaking first, and this time without the careful smile. She told me that when she married into Bernard’s family, his mother had called her a provincial girl from a farm town and corrected her grammar at every meal. Somewhere along the way, she had become the woman she once feared. She said she was sorry, and that I had reminded her of who she used to be.

Bernard apologized next, stiffly at first, then sincerely. Later that night, both of them went out to the deck and apologized to Anna directly, in English, without excuses. Anna accepted, but she also told them that if they ever spoke about her that way again, they would be speaking to an empty chair at every holiday. Matthieu stood beside her and nodded. Bernard even asked Anna for her bourguignon recipe.

The wedding was in October, beside the lake. I gave a toast in both English and French, and Isabelle cried at the French half. Anna asked me afterward why I had hidden that part of myself for so long. I didn’t have a good answer. Isabelle and I write to each other in French every month now. So next spring, Anna and I are flying to Marseille together. I want her to meet the woman I used to be.