A few months later, there was a knock at our door.
Jason opened it, then stiffened. “Mom,” he said.
She stood on our porch in leggings and a hoodie, hair in a messy bun, no makeup. I’d never seen her look anything less than polished.
“Can I come in?” she asked.
Jason didn’t move. “Why?” he asked.
She sighed dramatically. “Your father is being cruel,” she said. “He cut me off completely. I have nowhere to go. I thought maybe I could stay here for a little while until I get back on my feet.”
She looked past him at me. “After everything I’ve done for this family, the least you can do is offer me a room.”
I walked over, drying my hands on a towel.
I thought about that turkey in the trash. About her voice saying, “poor little orphan girl.” About the way she’d smiled while I tried not to cry.
“I’m sorry you’re struggling,” I said slowly. “But you can’t stay here.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Wow,” she said. “I see. You turned my son against me, and now you want me homeless.”
Jason shook his head. “You did this,” he said. “You treated people like they were disposable. You blew up your marriage. You don’t get to act shocked there are consequences.”
She stared at him like she didn’t recognize him.
“If you change your mind—” she started.
“We won’t,” I said gently.
Richard handled the rest. He set firm boundaries, got legal help, and stopped answering her late-night calls.
Continue reading on the next page 👇
