About three weeks ago, my sister-in-law Jessica—married to my brother Peter—called me, practically bursting with enthusiasm.
She had found what she called the “perfect” lake house in Asheville for a family getaway.
“It’s got six bedrooms, a private dock, and even a hot tub!” she gushed. “Only $500 per person.”
Then she casually mentioned that she wouldn’t be paying her share since she was the one handling all the planning.
That should’ve been a warning sign, but my mom, Meryl, was too excited to care.
“Sharon, I haven’t had a proper vacation in forever,” she said happily.
And she wasn’t exaggerating. After our dad passed away, Mom worked tirelessly, juggling three jobs without ever complaining. If anyone deserved a break, it was her.
I was genuinely happy she’d finally get a chance to unwind.
But then, just two days before the trip, my young son Tommy spiked a high fever. There was no way I could leave him.
I called Jessica. “I’m really sorry, but Tommy’s sick. I won’t be able to come.”
Her voice turned cold. “Well, I guess we’ll make do without you.”
No concern for my son. Just irritation that her headcount was off.
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