“I know.”
She stopped.
I had spent years being given reasons.
The reasons were real.
So was the pattern.
“How much do you and Michael earn now?” I asked.
“That is private.”
I almost smiled.
“My money apparently wasn’t.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Because you offered to help.”
“And I am no longer offering.”
Jennifer’s breathing changed.
“You know, Barbara, this is exactly the problem.”
“What is?”
“You make Michael feel guilty all the time.”
I was stunned.
Not because she had accused me.
Because I had heard versions of it before.
When I mentioned working Christmas during Michael’s sophomore year.
When I joked about how expensive his dorm had been.
When I reminded him to call his aunt after she sent the children gifts.
Apparently remembering sacrifice was a kind of manipulation if the beneficiary preferred not to remember.
“I’m sorry he feels guilty.”
Jennifer gave a short laugh.
“See? That.”
“What would you prefer I say?”
“That your help was freely given.”
“It was.”
“Then stop acting like we owe you.”
I looked at the family photographs on my mantel.
Michael at ten in a Little League uniform.
Michael at graduation.
Michael and Jennifer on their wedding day.
Owen as a newborn.
Lily asleep on my chest.
“No,” I said slowly. “You do not owe me obedience. You do not owe me every Christmas. You do not owe me repayment for raising my son.”
“Exactly.”
“But you do owe me basic respect if you want a relationship with me.”
