I thought about calling again. Maybe I’d misunderstood. Maybe something terrible had happened. Maybe they were in the hospital, or their car had broken down, or one of the kids got sick.

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, something I didn’t want to see because seeing it meant admitting I’d made a terrible mistake.

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. I’d let them treat my love like a transaction, my generosity like an obligation, and my presence like an afterthought.

But I didn’t argue that night. I didn’t chase them down or beg them to care. I didn’t send long text messages asking what I’d done wrong or how I could fix it. I just waited quietly, because I wanted to see what love really looked like when the money stopped.