I corrected him calmly. “I’m not going. I wasn’t invited.”
He frowned. “She says you’re being difficult about the livestream thing.”
I let out a short laugh. “The livestream ‘thing’ where I watch my only daughter get married from my kitchen because her future mother-in-law doesn’t want me there?”
Justin tried to soften it. “Marcel’s family is traditional. And they’re paying for most of it.”
That’s when my patience turned to ice. “Are they? Because I already paid thirty thousand—and I was about to send fifty more when I got told not to come.”
His face changed. “Fifty thousand?”
“Yes,” I said. “And I canceled it.”
He snapped into panic. “Mom, they’re counting on that. Deposits, catering—”
I took a slow sip of wine. “Not my responsibility.”
He stared like I’d broken the rules of motherhood. “She’s your daughter.”
“And I’m her mother,” I said quietly. “But apparently that doesn’t earn me a seat in the room.”
He got angry. He said I was making it about me.
That’s when something in me stopped negotiating.
“Leave,” I said.
He blinked. “What?”
“Get out of my house.”
Not to punish him. Not for drama. Because I was done being spoken to like an inconvenience in the life I funded.
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