Act II: The Geography of Neglect
The first night they chose Hannah’s house over mine, I performed a familiar ritual of self-gaslighting. They’re tired from the flight, I whispered to the empty chairs. Hannah’s kids are small; they need the grandparents more than I do. I wrapped the roast in foil, blew out the candles, and went to bed, pretending the hollow feeling in my gut was just hunger.
The next morning, I reached out with a smiling emoji, a digital mask for my desperation. “Good morning. I can make brunch here whenever you’re ready. No rush.”
Four hours passed. At noon, I saw a post from Hannah. They were at a waterfront restaurant—the kind with a three-month waiting list. My parents were beaming. The caption read: “Best surprise visit ever. The kids are spoiled rotten this week.” My mother had commented: “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
The irony was a physical weight. She hadn’t missed me for four years, yet she wouldn’t miss a baseball game with Hannah’s toddlers “for the world.”
