The guest-room window with peeling trim was visible from the yard.

“They said they didn’t have twelve hundred dollars for the mortgage.”

Martha softened.

“Maybe they don’t.”

“They bought a giant television.”

“That does complicate the story.”

I removed my gloves.

“They’re not broke.”

“No.”

“They’re spending their money on what they want because they assume I’ll cover what they need.”

Martha nodded.

“That sounds closer.”

The truth embarrassed me.

Not because I had helped my daughter.

Because I had allowed emergency to expand until it meant protecting them from the consequences of spending money on wants before obligations.

Martha invited me for tea.

Her kitchen smelled of lemon loaf and furniture polish.

We sat at her little round table.

I told her enough.

Not everything.

She listened.

When I finished, she said, “You know the danger of being dependable?”

“What?”

“People start treating dependence on you like one of their accomplishments.”

I gave a sad smile.

“That sounds like something you had prepared.”

“I’ve had children for fifty years.”

She poured more tea.

“I’ve prepared many things.”

That night, I made a list.

Not from anger.

From practicality.

Every financial or logistical connection still tying me to Sarah and David.

Family phone plan.

Streaming accounts.

Storage unit.

Vehicle co-signing.

Emergency credit card.