You can afford it. And Zoe’s been so stressed about the wedding.”
Just money. The words came out sharper than I intended.
“Jerry, this is my entire emergency fund. This is—”
“It’s a loan,” he said, examining his fingernails. “She’ll pay you back eventually.
Besides, you’ve got the house, your pension. You’re fine.”
I stared at my son—this man I’d raised, whose scraped knees I’d bandaged, whose dreams I’d supported through two failed business ventures and a marriage that ended because he couldn’t hold a job longer than eight months. Who now stood in my kitchen, in my house, where he paid no rent, dismissing my financial security as inconsequential.
“Where’s Zoe’s engagement dinner?” I asked suddenly, changing tactics. Jerry froze. “What?”
“The engagement dinner.
I haven’t received an invitation. When is it?”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“Oh… that. Yeah, I think they… I think they might have already had it. Like a small thing.
You know how Zoe is about keeping things intimate.”
The lie hung in the air between us like a physical thing. I could feel it settling into my bones, joining the accumulated weight of a thousand small exclusions, dismissals, and casual cruelties. Birthday dinners.
I wasn’t invited to. Grandchildren’s recital. I learned about through Facebook posts.
Family photos. I wasn’t included in. Because you never like how you look in pictures, Mom.
“I see.”
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