Emily buried her face in her hands.
“I know,” she moaned. “I know, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“You’re sorry?”
I finally asked.
My voice came out colder than I expected.
“Are you sorry you humiliated me, or are you sorry you got caught?”
She looked up.
Mascara was running down her cheeks.
“I’m sorry for both. I’m sorry.”
She took a shaky breath.
“I’m sorry I was cruel. I’m sorry I treated you like… like a servant. And I’m sorry I was exposed like this because it forced me to see the monster I became.”
That surprised me.
I expected excuses.
Justifications.
Not self-criticism.
“I…” Emily continued, wiping her tears with trembling hands. “I grew up poor, Mrs. Beatatrice. Very poor. My mother worked as a maid her whole life. And when I managed to get out of that poverty, when I got my career and my position, I think I became exactly what I hated most: the employers who treated my mother badly.”
