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.

Maybe he was calling to ask what time I should arrive on Thursday. Maybe Sarah wanted me to bring something special.

I opened the message and read it. Then I read it again, and then one more time. The words didn’t make sense.

“Mom, I know you just bought us the house, but Sarah’s dad doesn’t want you coming to Thanksgiving dinner. Sarah thinks it’s better this way. We’ll see you some other time.”

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.