That was their name for the emergency fund I had created after Mom’s surgery three years earlier. I contributed to it every month. Eric never deposited anything. Neither did Dad. Mom occasionally withdrew money and described it as “reimbursement for stress.”
Yet whenever the family wanted something expensive, my money somehow belonged to everyone.
Whenever my son needed basic consideration, I was told I should have prepared better.
Noah lowered his voice. “Mom, I’m not that hungry.”
That wounded me more than anything Eric had said.
He was hungry.
He had looked forward to the dinner all day. He had worn his blue button-down shirt because Grandpa liked “nice shirts.” He had even made a card by hand that read Happy Retirement, Grandpa. I’m proud of you.
Now he was shrinking into himself at a table surrounded by adults who should have defended him.
I rested my hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to eat that.”
Eric gave an irritated laugh. “Don’t start drama, Claire. Kids eat hotdogs. He’ll survive.”
My mother forced a smile. “Honestly, your brother already spent enough tonight.”
I noticed the waiter approaching with another bottle of wine, the same bottle Eric had bragged cost more than my first car.
Then I rose from my seat.
Every face turned toward me.
I raised my glass and said, “Before dessert comes out, I’d like to announce something.”
Eric’s grin grew wider, clearly expecting me to offer a toast.
Instead, I faced the waiter and said, “Please separate the checks. Everything ordered for my son and me goes on my card. Everything else goes to the person who ordered it.”
The waiter gave a polite nod.
Eric’s smile disappeared.
Then I continued, “And please remove my card from the family account on file.”
No one spoke.
