I was already dressed for dinner when my son sent two messages less than a minute apart—the first saying plans at the new townhouse had changed, the second telling the truth: I had never been invited in the first place. His wife didn’t want me there.

There was a long, heavy silence on the other end of the line. “Are you certain you want to stop all of them, Mrs. Smith? You have a significant number of active mandates.”

“I am quite certain,” I replied. “I want the temporary holds placed tonight, and I will be at the branch the moment you open tomorrow morning to sign the permanent paperwork.”

The woman’s voice shifted into a tone of professional concern. “I have placed the holds as requested. For your records, there are one hundred and seventy-four separate transactions affected by this order.”

One hundred and seventy-four. The number hit me like a physical weight in the center of my chest.

That was the number of ways my resources were being drained to support a family that didn’t even want me at their dinner table. I thanked the woman, hung up the phone, and sat in the silence of my kitchen for a very long time.

I picked up my mobile phone one last time and opened the message Wesley had sent me. “Okay,” I typed back. “If I am not invited, then you and Serena can begin paying your own way starting tomorrow.”