One tiny window.
Concrete wall.
No private bathroom.
No kitchenette.
No sitting room.
When I asked what had happened to the original plan, Grant told me construction costs had “gone insane.”
Melissa said we would revisit it later.
We never did.
And somehow, over time, I began apologizing for asking.
Now, in that supermarket, after four years of quietly paying bills and washing their clothes, my daughter was publicly demanding that I finance an executive dinner I had not even been invited to sit through.
“Mom,” Melissa said, jaw tight, “take out your card.”
I stared at her.
“I’m not paying.”
She blinked.
“What?”
“I said no.”
Grant stepped closer.
“Evelyn, don’t create a scene.”
I almost smiled at the absurdity.
“I’m not the one creating it.”
