By the end of the conversation, Valerie was fragile, David was stressed, Dad had chest pressure, and I was selfish for “punishing the family” because I was lonely.
“You act like we’re strangers asking for handouts,” Mom said.
“No,” I said. “Strangers would ask once.”
Silence.
Then she cried.
I paid for the flights.
Not directly. I wasn’t that far gone, at least I thought I wasn’t. Years earlier, I had opened a separate checking account for “family emergencies” after my mother insisted it would make things easier when Dad needed prescriptions or David needed a temporary loan. My name was on it. So was hers. I deposited money. She withdrew it.
By then, there was a little over eighteen thousand dollars in the account. It was supposed to be a safety net.
Mine, apparently, was woven for everyone else.
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