“This resort is for successful people,” mom announced at the family reunion. Sister agreed: “not warehouse workers.” I kept quiet. The general manager appeared: “ms. williams, your family’s reservation needs your approval…”
The transmission of my battered, seven-year-old Honda Civic offered a pathetic, mechanical whine as I coaxed it into the visitor annex of Azure Heights Resort. Even from this distance, I could spot my mother’s obsidian Mercedes and my older sister’s pearl-white BMW. They were perched like arrogant birds of prey in the VIP valet section,…