I had made it very clear that I couldn’t lend any money that month, because I still had to put all my money and emotional strength toward the surgery I was about to undergo, and I kept thinking my daughter-in-law would be understanding and stop there. But just a few minutes later, my phone lit up with a message from her, so cold that I was left stunned, unable to believe what had just appeared before my eyes.

That total did not include the groceries I showed up with every other week, the school supplies I bought at the beginning of every school year because no child should start September without fresh pencils and a backpack that zips properly, the birthday parties I hosted in my backyard because they had less space and my grandson wanted room for a plastic pool and a piñata, the Halloween costumes I paid for when one of the kids changed their mind at the last minute, the Christmas pajamas, the gas, the hours, the forty-minute drives one way to pick my grandson up from school when one of them was stuck at work. Not once. Dozens of times. Enough times that the school secretary knew my car and waved me through the pickup line before I even reached the awning.

Because I was the backup plan.

The permanent, reliable, never-complaining backup plan.