“That article was widely shared!”
“It was written by a man selling radioactive mushroom powder.”
Leo started laughing.
Mom slammed her fork down.
She told me fear was making me irrational.
Maybe, she suggested, I should delay the procedure another six months.
Try stronger glasses.
Get another opinion.
I reminded her we had already seen several specialists.
Then Vance accused me of arrogance for trusting experts.
“The narrative should be questioned,” he said.
“The narrative was written by a corneal surgeon.”
“Experts can be wrong.”
“So can basement comedians.”
Then the real reason for the conversation appeared.
Mom said Vance had an important opportunity.
Of course he did.
He cleared his throat and began pitching me.
There was a six-week comedy program in Chicago.
Apparently prestigious.
Apparently transformative.
Apparently expensive.
“How much?”
“Four thousand two hundred.”
I stared at him.
Mom immediately explained that she wasn’t asking me to pay all of it.
Just help.
I said no.
Then Mom finally said the quiet part out loud.
She suggested that perhaps Leo’s procedure could be delayed until the next quarter.
And maybe that money could be used to help Vance attend the comedy course.
The room went completely silent.
Even Vance stared at her.
I placed both hands flat on the table.
“Finish that sentence.”
Mom tried to reframe it as “prioritizing family resources.”
I looked at Leo.
His face had gone pale.
Then I stood.
“My son’s medical treatment is the priority.”
Mom insisted the surgery was optional.
Vance argued that the comedy program might represent a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
I looked it up under the table.
It ran three times a year.
When I told him that, he actually asked how I knew.
“Because I Googled it while Mom was talking.”
I grabbed my purse.
“Leo, get your coat.”
Mom followed us down the hallway.
She insisted no one wanted to hurt Leo.
“I know.”
“We love him.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you acting like I suggested something horrible?”
“Because you did.”
She grabbed my arm.
I pulled away.
“Listen carefully. You do not get a vote in my son’s medical care.”
Her face changed.
“You cannot talk to me like I’m a stranger.”
“Then stop acting like a hostile creditor.”
I walked Leo outside.
We drove home mostly in silence.
A few minutes before reaching our house, he finally spoke.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“You’re not actually going to cancel the surgery because Uncle Vance needs comedy money, right?”
My hands tightened around the steering wheel.
“Absolutely not.”
He nodded.
“Okay.”
Then, after another pause:
“Also, his oatmeal joke really is terrible.”
I laughed despite everything.
“It was funny when I wrote it.”
That should have been the end.
It wasn’t.
For the next week, Mom sent messages disguised as concern.
