He preferred language that made ordinary selfishness sound professionally diagnosed.

When I asked them to call before dropping by, I was “creating unnecessary tension.”

When I said I couldn’t afford the expensive birthday gift Sarah suggested for Leo one year, I was “making money emotional.”

When I asked whether I could see my grandson on a Saturday when they had no plans, I was “not respecting their family unit.”

Sarah once rolled her eyes at those phrases too.

Eventually, she started repeating them.

That hurt more than anything David could say.

I placed the phone on the counter and looked around the kitchen.

Photographs covered the refrigerator.

Sarah at eight in a soccer uniform two sizes too large.

Sarah at her high school graduation.

Sarah holding Leo in the hospital while I stood beside her crying so hard a nurse brought tissues.

There was also a picture of my husband, Michael, from our final trip to Maine. One hand shaded his eyes from the sun while the other rested around my shoulder.

Michael would have known what to say.

Or perhaps he would have waited before saying anything.

He was good at letting anger cool until it became useful.

I picked up my phone again.

My banking app was still open because I had paid the electric bill earlier that day.

I tapped recurring transfers.

There they were.

Mortgage assistance — Sarah & David — $1,200 monthly.

Auto loan assistance — $450 monthly.

Both automatic.

Both paid by me.

I stared at the figures.

For four years, I had called it help.

That night, for the first time, I wondered what Sarah and David called it.

Probably nothing.