When he said it, his eyes looked so sincere. And I believed him—believed every word, all the way down to my bones.
Three years had passed since then.
The day they brought me to the city to live the good life never came.
What came instead was a bill for fifteen thousand in lodging fees.
When I didn't speak, Lucia looked down at me from across the room.
"Now, now. Don't go feeling sorry for yourself."
"People our age, we're supposed to give. That's our job."
"While we can still get around, helping the young ones out, pitching in some money—that's just what's expected."
*A spirit of sacrifice.*
Those words, out of her mouth, made my skin crawl.
I looked at Lucia Lambert and wanted so badly to ask: where, exactly, had she ever sacrificed a thing?
When Jeffrey married my daughter, she hadn't contributed a single cent.
Through all ten months of Virginia's pregnancy, she'd done nothing but complain about her own back pain and leg pain. She had plenty of energy for line dancing in the park, but she'd never once cooked my daughter a meal.
The moment Virginia went into labor, she'd grabbed her suitcase and left on vacation, and because she didn't want to be bored, she'd dragged Jeffrey along with her.
From the day that baby was born until now, she hadn't changed a single diaper.
Not a dollar spent, not a finger lifted.
And this was what she called a spirit of sacrifice from the elder generation?
When I stayed silent, Virginia's tone softened a little:
"Mom, come on, don't be like that."
"Jeff and his mom finally made it back. Let's all just go grab something to eat, walk around a bit."
She reached for my arm the way she always used to, sweet and coaxing.
I pulled away.
"No, that's alright."
"You all go."
They were the family, after all.
I was just an outsider they expected to hand over rent and utility money.
That meal—I couldn't have eaten a bite.
Virginia just gave a faint nod, like it was the most natural thing in the world:
"Then go clear your stuff out of the spare room. My mother-in-law needs it tonight."
Lucia was right behind her:
"Yes, yes—hurry it up. And strip every sheet and pillowcase you slept on, then disinfect the whole room top to bottom."
"You're from the countryside. God knows what kind of filth you tracked in."
Jeffrey:
"Oh, and the kitchen. Throw out all those pots and dishes."
I looked at the disgust on their faces and nodded.
"Fine."