Megan’s expression hardened instantly. “Wow.”
“Wow?” I echoed.
She stood up. “You made your kid do this? That is unbelievably manipulative.”
I pushed the blanket off my lap, even though the room tilted when I moved too fast. “You walked into my house and asked a woman in chemo to risk her credit for a car you don’t need.”
“I do need a car.”
“You need this car,” I shot back. “A brand-new SUV with heated seats.”
Mom folded the paper so sharply I thought it might tear. “Claire, no one is trying to hurt you. Families help each other.”
The words hit so hard I actually laughed—bitter, cracked, ugly laughter.
“Families?” I said. “Which part felt like family? When I called from the hospital parking lot and you told me you were busy playing ribbon games? Or when Megan texted me instead of showing up? Or maybe family was the silence during my first chemo, second chemo, the surgery consult, the biopsy follow-up—”
“Oh please,” Megan cut in. “We sent flowers.”
Denise, who had just let herself in through the side door with a casserole dish balanced in one hand, stopped in the entryway. She took in the scene in one glance—the fruit tray, my son, my mother’s face—and slowly set the dish down on the counter.
