Four minutes. All rage.
I deleted it.
My mother’s texts were gentler, but just as desperate.
Mom, we need to talk. Can we meet?
Mom. Jenny, please call me.
Mom, we didn’t know. We didn’t know it was like that.
I didn’t respond. Not that day.
Sam and I went to breakfast, walked along the lake, ignored our phones.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “I really am.”
I finally agreed to meet them 2 weeks later. June 28th, a Starbucks on Armitage, neutral territory. Sam came with me.
My parents arrived looking tired. My mother’s makeup couldn’t hide the shadows under her eyes. My father wore a polo shirt. Casual, like this was just coffee.
We sat.
“We didn’t know, Jenny,” my mother started. “You never told us where.”
“You never asked,” I said.
My father leaned forward. “You made us look like fools.”
I stared at him. I didn’t make you do anything. You chose Ashley. You chose wrong.
“That’s not fair.”
“You sat in that ballroom for 40 minutes,” I said. “You stayed long enough to not look completely heartless. That’s the math you did. You saw the fire chief, the alderman, the hospital CEO, the news camera. You saw $235,000 raised for dying children. And you still left early to go to Ashley’s champagne tower.”
My mother’s eyes filled. “We had committed.”
“You committed to me first,” I said. Eight months before Ashley even got engaged. But the second she wanted my date, you picked her. You told me her wedding was the one people would talk about. You were right. They’re talking, just not the way you wanted.”
Silence.
“We made a mistake,” my father said quietly.
“You made a choice,” I said. “You’ve been making it for years.”
My mother reached across the table. I pulled back.
“I’m not cutting you off,” I said. “But I’m not doing this anymore. I’m not accepting scraps. I’m not pretending it’s okay to be treated like the backup child.”
