“But you sent it.”
“Yes.”
That mattered.
For months, I had been tempted to make David the villain who turned my daughter against me because that story was easier to bear.
Sarah could see it.
“I’m sorry.”
“Why did you send it?”
She wrapped her hands around her coffee cup.
“Because every time I talked to you, I felt guilty.”
“For what?”
“Everything.”
“I didn’t ask you for money.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t ask you to support me.”
“I know.”
“Then what?”
She looked at me.
“Because you were sacrificing so much, and instead of feeling grateful, I started feeling angry.”
I leaned back.
That answer surprised me.
She continued.
“I knew what you were giving us.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“The pension?”
She nodded.
“The coat?”
Her expression changed.
“What coat?”
“Never mind.”
“No. What coat?”
I sighed.
“I kept delaying buying one.”
She covered her mouth.
“Mom.”
“This isn’t about making you feel guilty.”
“But you just said—”
“I said it because you need to understand something.”
I leaned forward.
“I chose to help. That part is mine.”
She stared.
“But when my help became expected instead of appreciated, I should have stopped sooner.”
Sarah cried.
“I thought you had more.”
