I signed.
Later, Brianna asked to be added to one of my credit accounts.
“Just for emergencies,” she said.
She had a way of making hesitation feel unkind, so I agreed.
Then I noticed the charges.
A spa weekend in Gatlinburg.
Expensive luggage.
Restaurant tabs of two and three hundred dollars.
Clothes.
Salon visits.
Even a monthly wine subscription.
I stopped counting when the total passed $11,000.
I made tea and let it go cold while telling myself Derek worked hard, Brianna would settle down, and family mattered more than money.
What I wouldn’t admit was that I had become afraid of what might happen if I stopped helping.
Then Easter came.
Derek called a few days before.
“Come spend the day with us, Mom. Brianna’s making a big dinner.”
His voice was warm.
I spent most of Saturday making a coconut cake from scratch, the one Derek had loved since childhood.
On Sunday, I put on a blouse I had bought for the occasion, carefully placed the cake carrier in the passenger seat, and drove 40 minutes to their house.
I was happy on that drive.
That matters to me.
I hadn’t arrived expecting an insult or a fight.
I was simply happy to spend Easter with my son.
Their house smelled like roast lamb and fresh flowers.
There were 12 people: Brianna’s parents, two sisters and their husbands, a few friends, Derek, and me.
Derek kissed my cheek.
Brianna barely glanced at the cake when I placed it on the kitchen counter.
When everyone moved toward the dining room, I walked to the chair I had used at Christmas four months earlier.
It was near the middle of the table.
I put a hand on the back and began pulling it out.
Brianna appeared beside me.
She took the chair from my hand.
At first, I assumed she was moving it to make space.
Instead, she slowly pulled it away from the table, carried it several feet, and placed it against the wall.
