anyway.
At the airport, my parents came through the sliding doors with their carry-ons and winter coats draped over their arms. Mom looked smaller than I remembered. Dad’s hair had gone almost completely white. For half a second, all my anger dissolved into tenderness so sharp it hurt.
“There’s my girl,” Dad said.
He hugged me with one arm because his other hand held his phone. Mom kissed my cheek and told me I looked tired.
“Good tired,” I said. “I’ve been getting everything ready.”
She looked past me toward the curb. “Where’s Marcus?”
That should have warned me.
He arrived five minutes later in his black SUV, wearing sunglasses though the sky was gray. His wife, Hannah, sat in the passenger seat, and their eighteen-month-old daughter, Poppy, slept in the back under a yellow blanket.
Mom made a sound I had never heard her make for me. A bright, open, delighted sound.
“My baby,” she whispered, rushing past my outstretched hands toward the car.
I told myself not to be childish. Poppy was small. Grandparents loved babies. That did not mean they loved me less.
At Marcus’s house, I carried my parents’ luggage into the guest room while everyone else gathered around Poppy in the kitchen. The house was bigger than I expected. Newer, too. White walls, black fixtures, an enormous sectional, a wine fridge humming beneath the counter.
I recognized some of it.
The leather recliner Dad eased himself into had been paid for after Mom told me his old chair hurt his back. The designer crib upstairs had been an emergency because Poppy had suddenly outgrown the old one. The wine fridge looked remarkably like the “used appliance” Marcus had needed help buying after his taxes came due.
Family money, I had called it.
My money, I now saw.
“Dinner at my place tonight?” I asked brightly, while Mom bounced Poppy on her knee.
“Tonight might be hard,” Marcus said. “They just traveled.”
Dad looked relieved. “Maybe tomorrow, sweetheart.”
Tomorrow became Friday.
Friday became Saturday.
Each evening followed the same humiliating ritual.
At four o’clock, I started cooking.
At five, I set the table for four.
At six, I checked my phone.
At seven, I received a soft excuse.
Dad was tired. Mom had a headache. Poppy would not nap. Marcus had already started the grill. Hannah had invited neighbors. The traffic would be annoying. It was getting dark. They would definitely come tomorrow.
At eight, I wrapped the food.
At nine, I blew out the candles.
At ten, I watched social media punish me for hoping.
There was my mother in Marcus’s kitchen, laughing with a glass of champagne. There was Dad wearing a paper turkey crown while Poppy clapped. There was Hannah leaning against Marcus while my parents smiled at the baby as if joy had finally found the correct address.
The caption under one photo read, “Nothing better than having family under one roof.”
I sat alone under my own roof, staring at the words until they blurred.
On Monday, I stopped cooking elaborate meals and made soup.
On Tuesday, I bought flowers for the table because some stubborn part of me still believed beauty could persuade people.
On Wednesday, I drove to the Bellweather Theater even though I was supposed to be off.
