You know what? Your kids won’t be joining us in Hawaii for New Year’s. Taking everyone is already costing us a fortune,” my father told me over the phone, talking about my children as though they were extra baggage instead of his own grandchildren.
For a few seconds, I said nothing.
I’m 34, I’ve been raising my children on my own for five years, and I live in Denver with my two kids: Emma, who’s nine, and Noah, who’s seven. Their father walked out when Noah was only two. I work as a project manager for a technology company, and my salary is considerably higher than anyone in my family realizes.
The funny thing was, none of them had ever bothered to ask what I earned. In their minds, I was still “Claire, the one who got left alone with two kids.”
My older brother, Ryan, was 38, married to Megan, and had three children. Somehow, my parents had always found a reason to do more for him. They bought him his first car at sixteen, covered his college tuition, and later gave him nearly $40,000 toward the down payment on his house. I got through college with scholarships and student loans. When I bought my first condo, they gave me a gift card to a department store.
I’d stopped keeping score years ago.
But I wasn’t about to let my children grow up accepting the same unequal treatment.
My father had rented a four-bedroom vacation house at a resort in Maui for himself, my mother, Ryan, Megan, and their three kids.
“How many people are going?” I asked.
“Seven.”
There was clearly enough room for Emma and Noah.
“So this isn’t about there not being enough space,” I said.
My father paused for barely a second.
“Claire, don’t turn this into something complicated. Between airfare, food, and activities, we’re already spending too much.”
And there it was.
