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.

I looked through the porch screen at my sister’s herb pots lined up in mismatched containers. Basil, rosemary, mint gone wild.

“Yes,” I said again.

“That doesn’t fix it.”

“No.”

Another silence.

Then she said, “I think I got used to assuming you would always help.”

There are truths that land with so little decoration they nearly pass for small talk. That one did not. It entered the conversation and sat there between us, undeniable.

“I know,” I said.

“I’m not good at asking for help,” she said. “So by the time I did, I was already resentful.”

“That is not the same as being entitled to it.”

“No,” she said softly. “It isn’t.”