At my seventieth birthday dinner, my son set a bowl of dog food before me and laughed, “That’s all you deserve now, Mom.” A single candle leaned from the brown chunks as his wife, Kelsey, and six friends burst into laughter around the private dining room.
For one second, humiliation stole my breath. I expected cruelty from Derek, but not a performance like this. He had placed a glittery paper hat over my silver hair, booked the room with my credit card, and invited people who had spent years drinking my wine and vacationing in my homes.
There was no cake.
Only the bowl.
“Make a wish,” Kelsey said, filming me with the phone I paid for.
Derek scratched behind my ear like I was a pet. “Maybe wish for a nice nursing home.”
I took his wrist and returned his hand to the table. “Enjoy the joke,” I said.
