That was the part that stayed with me.
My daughter pressed closer to my leg.
My son looked between me and my father, his face shifting from confusion to quiet understanding.
Children shouldn’t recognize rejection that quickly.
Mine did.
He tugged my sleeve and whispered,
“Are we not wanted?”
That hurt more than anything my father had said.
Because my father insulted me—
But my son translated it into truth.
I bent down, kissed his forehead, and said softly,
“Let’s go.”
I didn’t argue.
I didn’t demand an apology.
I didn’t create a scene.
I didn’t give them the moment they could later use to call me dramatic.
I just took my children’s hands…
And walked out.
In the parking lot, I buckled them into the car and sat behind the wheel for a moment, staring ahead while the engine idled.
The urge to cry rose—then faded into something colder.
Exhaustion.
I was tired of always being the one expected to absorb everything.
Be patient.
Be understanding.
Be the bigger person.
Be useful.
