She was sitting at the dining table with Hannah and the kids, celebrating something I didn’t care to know about. They all looked so happy, so comfortable, while my children had spent the weekend being treated like second-class citizens in their own grandmother’s house.
“What is going on here?” I demanded, my voice shaking with barely controlled rage.
Margaret looked up at me with that familiar condescending smile. “Oh, Ava. You’re early. The kids are fine.”
“Fine?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “You fed them pizza crusts while everyone else ate real food!”
Hannah rolled her eyes. “You’re being dramatic. They ate just fine.”
“Get out,” Margaret said suddenly, standing up from her chair. Her face had gone cold. “Get out of my house and take your spoiled brats with you!”
The words hit me hard. I wanted to scream at her, to tell her exactly what kind of person she was, but I couldn’t fall apart in front of my kids. They’d been through enough.
I gathered Lily and Jacob and walked out of that house with my head held high, even though inside I was crumbling. The entire drive home, I held back tears because I didn’t want them to see me break.
They needed me to be strong.
