“Okay. So this is punishment.”
“No.”
“It feels like it.”
“That doesn’t make it punishment.”
“What else am I supposed to call you canceling help five days after an argument?”
“An end.”
He said nothing.
I looked out the window at the bare maple branches.
“The mortgage assistance was supposed to last six months.”
“We talked about extending it.”
“We never discussed three years.”
“We’ve had setbacks.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
My voice remained steady.
“But your setbacks cannot become my retirement plan.”
Michael was silent.
Then he said, “We depend on that money.”
The words hurt.
Not because I doubted them.
Because they revealed something I had avoided.
My sacrifice had stopped feeling like help to him.
It had become income.
“Then you need to change your budget.”
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“Yes.”
That startled both of us.
I continued.
“It is easier for me to say because I spent thirty-four years making hard things easier for you.”
“Mom—”
“I stayed home when you were sick. I worked overtime after your father died. I helped with college. Your wedding. This house.”
“I never asked you to ruin yourself.”
I flinched.
He heard it.
“I didn’t mean—”
“But I did.”
“No.”
“I didn’t ruin myself completely. Fortunately.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
