Then came Deborah, Adam’s mother, the kind of woman whose voice is honey, but her spoon is full of arsenic. “Monica is proof that talent doesn’t depend on geography,” she said, smiling just wide enough. “I’m sure much of Monica’s gift comes from her mother,” she continued, staring right at her. “The ability to see beauty in simplicity, to work with your hands, to stay connected to ordinary people. That kind of gift, well, it doesn’t come with diplomas.”

My face was burning. I wanted to scream, but I stayed seated. We don’t make scenes.