“You’re not being supportive of our family,” she said, like it was some kind of sin to have a doctor’s appointment. That’s all it was—just a follow-up after my knee surgery—but apparently needing one weekend for myself meant I no longer deserved to be their mother.
I was sitting on the edge of my bed when the call came through. The Friday sun had barely tilted west, and I had just finished folding a small basket of towels—still warm, still smelling faintly of lavender—when Jenna’s name lit up my screen. I hesitated before answering. She only called when she needed something.
