He thanked me. I transferred the $3,800 that afternoon, skipping the art retreat I’d planned for fall. Somehow it felt more satisfying to imagine the grandkids building sandcastles than learning to paint mine. It wasn’t the first time I’d done something like that. When Nolan was laid off three years ago, I covered two months of their mortgage. When Ivette needed a new car, I co‑signed the loan. When the twins were born, I drove across the state every other weekend so they could sleep. I never saw it as sacrifice; it felt natural—what mothers do.

But sitting in my quiet kitchen with the payment confirmation still glowing on the screen, something unfamiliar pressed against my chest. I had paid for the cabin, packed the snacks, baked the cookies. I was never meant to join. I had handed them the keys and been locked out. There were no accidents here, just decisions no one said out loud.

I slid the foil back over the cookies and put them in the fridge, unsure if I’d ever bring them to Clara again. The silence felt different now. It didn’t ache; it pulsed.