into the passenger seat.
But somehow, I felt lighter than I had in years.
My phone buzzed before I reached the highway.
It was Owen.
Mom, where did you go? Christa’s parents are waiting for the ham.
I pulled into a parking area and read the message.
Not a word about my feelings.
Not a question about why I’d left.
Just concern that dinner had been disrupted.
I put my phone away.
During the forty-minute drive, memories began returning.
The groceries I’d purchased whenever their budget was tight.
The birthday parties I’d helped organize.
The family vacations I’d contributed to.
The $1,400 cottage rental I’d paid for the previous summer.
Owen’s car insurance.
His phone bill, which I’d been covering since he was twenty-two.
Christa’s phone bill, too.
And the $400 I transferred every month to help with Maya’s expenses.
I had never kept track of these things because I
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