“Mom, I know you just bought us the house, but Sarah’s dad doesn’t want you coming to Thanksgiving dinner. Sarah thinks it’s better this way. We’ll see you some other time.”
My finger hung over the screen.
Around me, other moms and dads filled their carts with food for their families. A dad was picking out a turkey with his little girl. Two boys were fighting about which kind of cranberry sauce their grandpa liked. Regular people getting ready for regular holidays with families who wanted them there.
I started typing.
“After everything I’ve done. The house I just signed over. You’re picking her father over your own mother.”
I deleted it.
I typed, “I deserve to be treated better than this.”
Deleted it.
Typed, “We need to talk right now.”
Deleted that, too.
My phone felt slippery in my hand.
I’d paid for Danny’s wedding four years ago. $28,000 for a party that Sarah’s parents couldn’t pay for but insisted had to be fancy. I’d paid for their trip to Hawaii afterward. Gave him $12,000 when he said his car broke down and he needed help. That was two years ago. He never paid me back. Covered $6,000 in bills when he said they were having a hard month. Bought $10,000 worth of furniture when they moved into their apartment because Sarah wanted everything brand new. Nothing used or from my attic.
