“You’re my son!”
I closed my eyes.
That was the phrase at the center of everything.
You’re my son.
Patricia used it as though motherhood granted unlimited authority over another adult’s life.
And Derek used marriage the same way.
You’re my wife.
Two relationships that should have been based on love had become arguments about ownership.
Eventually, Derek came downstairs.
He looked exhausted.
“Lauren.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“Can we talk?”
I set down my tea.
“Certainly.”
He sat opposite me.
His expression softened.
“I think we got a little carried away today.”
I waited.
He continued.
“Mom was excited about my promotion.”
“Yes.”
“And I wanted to make sure she was taken care of.”
“That’s understandable.”
He looked relieved.
“So you’ll reactivate the cards?”
I stared at him.
“No.”
His relief vanished.
“Lauren.”
I held up a hand.
“Derek, taking care of your mother is not the issue.”
“Then what is?”