“When your father died, you were nineteen. I worked extra shifts so you could stay in college.”
His eyes filled.
“I remember.”
“When your first business failed, I helped you settle what you owed.”
“Mom—”
“When you called me after your divorce, I stayed on the phone until three in the morning because you didn’t want to be alone.”
He wiped his eyes.
“I know.”
I looked at him.
“And today, I needed you to say one sentence.”
He stared.
“That what Cassandra did wasn’t acceptable.”
He lowered his head.
I stood carefully.
“Instead, you laughed.”
“I’m sorry.”
I nodded.
But the apology felt unfinished.
Not because I wanted him to suffer.
Because I wasn’t sure he understood what he’d allowed.
Then he asked, “Can you please restore the canceled services?”
I stared at him.
He looked embarrassed.
“Cassandra says it’ll ruin the rest of the reception.”
I sat down again.
Of all the things he could have asked, that was the one he chose.
Not whether I was hurt.
Not whether I needed a ride home.
Not whether I wanted him to speak with his wife.
He wanted me to reopen my account.
