His mouth twisted. “And I said I’d call you back.”
You didn’t, I thought. You didn’t even bother.
“This isn’t how we handle family business,” he added, and I felt something inside me splinter at the phrase, like my need had been reduced to paperwork.
Family business.
I stared at him, at the son I had carried, fed, loved, and somehow it felt like I was looking at a man I didn’t know.
“I can’t live in my house anymore,” I said, forcing the words through the knot in my throat. “I’m sleeping on the living room couch. I’m using a bedpan. Mrs. Patterson helps me shower because I can’t get into my own bathroom.”
Michael’s gaze flicked away. Not from guilt exactly. More like discomfort.
“And you’ll get help,” he said, as if reading from a script. “But not like this. Ashley has dinner planned. The kids have homework. We have a routine.”
A routine that apparently didn’t include space for his mother.
“I’m not asking to disrupt your routine,” I said, and I heard the desperation I’d been trying to hide. “Just a place to sleep until I can figure something out. A week, maybe two.”
Michael’s jaw flexed as if he were chewing on the words.
“Mom,” he said, and his tone sharpened, “you know how Ashley feels about unexpected changes to our household dynamic.”
Unexpected changes.
That’s what I’d become.
I felt heat rise behind my eyes, but I blinked it back. Crying in his driveway wouldn’t change anything. It would only confirm whatever story they’d already decided to tell themselves about me.
“I helped you buy this house,” I said quietly.
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