I Learned How to Be Invisible Very Well
The ballroom glittered with quiet wealth—crystal chandeliers, marble floors, curated elegance meant to whisper power.
I stood just far enough from the crowd to be unseen.
Women I’d known for decades passed without acknowledging me.
They’d learned, as I had, that my presence carried no social currency.
Kenneth was somewhere in the crowd, laughing too loudly, touching shoulders, selling a version of himself he could no longer afford.
I understood his calibrations. I’d studied them for twenty-three years.
The tone he used for people above him. The posture for those below.
There was a time I had filled rooms.
A time when professors at Howard University asked for my insight.
A time when my mind mattered.
That woman felt like someone I used to know.
I touched the silver locket at my throat.
The only thing I owned that Kenneth hadn’t bought or approved.
Inside was a faded photograph—and a promise made thirty years ago.
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