The $700 Fridays
I still remember the exact tone of her voice. Not angry, not apologetic, just careless, like she was telling me the weather forecast. As if 75 years of living, loving, sacrificing, and surviving meant absolutely nothing at all.
For a few seconds, I couldn’t speak. My throat felt tight, my hands cold. The phone was still pressed against my ear, but I couldn’t hear anything except the sound of my own heartbeat—slow and heavy, like it was struggling to keep going.
I just ended the call. Didn’t argue, didn’t cry. I just stared at the quiet screen in my hand like it belonged to someone else.
The house felt like it was holding its breath. The refrigerator hummed. The clock on the wall ticked, but everything else was silent.
I walked to the living room and sat down on the couch, still wearing my good blue dress. The one my husband used to say made my eyes look brighter. I’d worn it for them, for the dinner that never happened.
For the birthday no one remembered. The truth is, I’d spent the entire evening at a restaurant alone, sitting at a table set for five, watching other families laugh and blow out candles and take pictures together. I’d told the waiter they were running late.
Then I told him they were stuck in traffic. Then I stopped making excuses and just paid the bill. The waiter had smiled gently when he handed me the receipt.
“Happy birthday, ma’am,” he’d said, and that was the only time anyone said it that night. I thought about calling again. Maybe I’d misunderstood.
Maybe something terrible had happened. But deep down, I already knew the truth. I knew because when I’d called, I’d heard music in the background, laughter, clinking glasses.
They weren’t in trouble. They were at a party. “A friend’s thing,” Clare had said, as if that somehow made it acceptable.
That night, I realized something I’d spent years avoiding. I’d been funding people who didn’t see me as family anymore. They saw me as a bank account, a weekly deposit, a convenience.
And the worst part—I’d let it happen. But I didn’t argue that night. I didn’t chase them down or beg them to care.
I just waited quietly, because I wanted to see what love really looked like when the money stopped. That was the night I stopped being generous. Three Years Earlier
It began about three years ago.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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