The Party I Wasn’t Invited To
The words came from Jacqueline — my daughter-in-law — while she poured herself champagne for the New Year’s Eve party downstairs.
The party I wasn’t invited to.
My son, Mason, stood behind her.
He stared at the expensive slate tiles they’d installed last spring.
Tiles I helped pay for with money from my parents’ estate.
He didn’t defend me.
He didn’t even look at me.
“Mom, it’s for the best,” he muttered finally. “You’ll have activities. People your age. Bingo. It’s… a nice place.”
A nice place.
As if loneliness is cured by fluorescent lights and scheduled entertainment.
I moved in after my husband died because Mason insisted I shouldn’t be alone.
That was before Jacqueline.
Before the McMansion.
Before I became invisible.
For years, I cooked, cleaned, and watched their children.
I made myself small and “useful,” thinking usefulness would earn belonging.
It didn’t.
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