“What I wanted,” I said, “was to be treated like family before I stopped funding you, not after.”
Garrett looked up.
“Mom, we do treat you like family.”
I turned to him.
“Do you?”
He swallowed.
“Yes.”
“All right,” I said. “When was the last time you came here for no reason?”
He stared at me.
“When was the last time you called just because you were thinking of me?”
Nothing.
“Toby,” I said, turning. “When was the last time you visited without needing help?”
He rubbed the back of his neck and said nothing.
“Marissa. Name one act of care you have shown me in the last five years that was not attached to an event, a holiday, or a need.”
Her mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
I answered for her.
“You can’t.”
She drew herself up.
“This is emotional manipulation.”
“No,” I said. “This is inventory.”
I walked over to the side table where I had laid the printed bank summary that morning. I picked it up and held it in my hand.
“One hundred seventy-four recurring payments, transfers, and authorizations,” I said. “That is what your version of family looked like in my name.”
Nobody spoke.
“You are not angry that I was hurt,” I said. “You are angry that your budget noticed.”