The peaceful days lasted for half a month when my mother called, her words brimming with anger.
"Isla, you really have a bad temper! You haven't brought us any groceries or cooked for us for half a month. Do you want to starve us to death?"
"Do you forget that your dad's leg needs a monthly check-up?"
I told her calmly, "I'm on postpartum confinement, so contact Viola for any matters in the future and stop bothering me."
Isabel had barely opened her mouth to yell when I decisively hung up.
Two months later, while celebrating my son's, Chris Leinert, one month birthday party, Viola and my parents, who weren't on the invitation list, appeared in front of me.
Viola, dressed in designer clothes and wearing a flawless makeup, casually took out twenty-eight dollars from her bag and stuffed it into my hand.
"Isla, congratulations! This is a small gift from Ronan and me to wish your baby a happy one-month celebration."
I didn't take it and she wasn't embarrassed either. She simply pushed our parents beside her forward.
“Oh, right. Dad and Mom's old house got demolished and they have nowhere to live for now."