My son sent me a message: “Mom, I know you just bought us the house, but Sarah’s dad says you can’t come to Thanksgiving.” I stared at the screen, thought about the $350,000 I had spent to give him a home, and typed one word back: “Okay.” That night, I stopped being everybody’s wallet and started being the woman who was about to take everything back—starting with the house they thought was already theirs.

My finger hung over the screen.

Around me, other moms and dads filled their carts with food for their families. A dad was picking out a turkey with his little girl. Two boys were fighting about which kind of cranberry sauce their grandpa liked. Regular people getting ready for regular holidays with families who wanted them there.

I started typing.

“After everything I’ve done. The house I just signed over. You’re picking her father over your own mother.”

I deleted it.

I typed, “I deserve to be treated better than this.”

Deleted it.

Typed, “We need to talk right now.”

Deleted that, too.

My phone felt slippery in my hand.

I’d paid for Danny’s wedding four years ago. $28,000 for a party that Sarah’s parents couldn’t pay for but insisted had to be fancy. I’d paid for their trip to Hawaii afterward. Gave him $12,000 when he said his car broke down and he needed help. That was two years ago. He never paid me back. Covered $6,000 in bills when he said they were having a hard month. Bought $10,000 worth of furniture when they moved into their apartment because Sarah wanted everything brand new. Nothing used or from my attic.

And now Richard, a man I’d met exactly twice, didn’t want me at dinner in the house I’d just bought for his daughter.

“Excuse me, dear. Are you okay? You look upset.”

An old woman stood next to me. Her cart was full of food for a big meal. Pictures of her family were on her phone cover.

“I’m fine,” I said.

My voice sounded funny, like it belonged to someone else.

“Just remembered something I need to do.”

I looked at my phone again. The little line blinked in the empty box, waiting for me to be smart enough to know what to say.

Instead, I just typed one word.

“Okay.”

Sent it.

My shopping cart sat where I left it. Pumpkins and fresh green beans already picked out, already useless. I walked out the door into the parking lot. The afternoon sun felt different now. Too bright, like it was showing me something I didn’t want to see.

Inside my car, I put the purple notebook on the seat next to me. All those papers. Six years of not buying things for myself. One text message.

My hands grabbed the steering wheel tight. The screen on my phone cracked a tiny bit at the corner. I didn’t even know I was squeezing it so hard. The crack spread out like a little tree branch. Small, but it would stay there forever.