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“I’m here for the barbecue. We talked about this. I brought my apple pie.”
Jessica’s jaw tightened.
“This year’s party is different. It’s smaller, more intimate.”
“Smaller,” I repeated, confused. Through the windows, I could see the house was full of people.
“Jessica, I don’t understand. You invited me. You texted me three weeks ago.”
“No, I didn’t invite you,” she said, and her voice was so cold, so matter-of-fact, that it took me a moment to process the words.
“I invited Tyler’s mother. She’s been having a hard time since the divorce, and we wanted to make this special for her.”
Tyler’s mother. Diane Fletcher.
A woman who had always looked at me like I was something she’d stepped in. A woman who had never hidden her belief that her son had married beneath him when he chose Jessica. A woman who had criticized everything from my cooking to my clothes to my simple lifestyle in my modest home.
“But… but you said I could come,” I stammered. “You said same time as always. You asked me to bring the pie.”
If anything, it hardened further. “I think you misunderstood. I was asking if you were going to your own family gathering, not inviting you to ours.”
The words hung in the air between us like a slap.
I stared at my daughter—this woman I had carried for nine months, raised for eighteen years, supported through college, celebrated through her wedding, comforted through difficult times—and I didn’t recognize her. “Jessica,” I said quietly, “this is our tradition. For five years, I’ve been coming to your Fourth of July party.
I’ve never missed one.”
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