No one at that table seemed to remember that for the last three years, the person paying for almost all of that “living well” was me.
The mortgage on Theresa’s house: $3,200 a month. Utilities and upkeep: roughly $1,000. Daniel’s credit card, which was constantly maxed out: anywhere between $1,800 and $2,500 every month.
When Theresa had unexpected surgery, I paid the hospital bill. When Aaron lost his job, I covered two months of his car payments. I had done it all because Daniel kept repeating the exact same line: “We’re family, Mari. Someday, they’d do the same for us.”
Sitting there staring at that bare porcelain, I realized they never would.
I looked at the empty plate. Then I looked at Daniel. I waited for him to speak up. To defend his wife. To ask why his mother could spend hundreds of dollars on a lavish dinner for Lauren while treating me like an unwelcome stray.
Daniel just kept chewing. “Mom’s just like that,” he whispered, refusing to meet my eyes. “Don’t make a scene.”
That whisper hurt worse than his mother’s insult.
