“Mind your own business,” he replied, barely looking up, his tone dripping with disdain.
That stung. I was about to take my phone back, but Margaret intervened.
“What are you doing? My grandson needs to get to school! How can you not understand that? Feed him!”
“Mom, he’s seven; he can eat by himself,” I said, taking off my apron and preparing to sit down for breakfast.
“Oh, really? He’s seven and doesn’t need feeding? Your brother’s in his thirties and still needs someone to spoon-feed him! My poor grandson is stuck with you as a mom. Guess it’s up to me to take care of him!” Margaret immediately started feeding my son.
I froze mid-motion, about to sit down.
My husband, Jocob Sullivan, and I were college sweethearts. During my senior year, he graduated with his master’s, and we got married right after I graduated. We were so in love back then. After the wedding, he didn’t want me to show my face too much, and just a month later, I got pregnant, so I became a stay-at-home mom.
Eight years later, he had become the youngest professor at his university.