“Do you realize you’re already twenty minutes late?
We have politicians and important guests arriving, and your place at Chloe’s debutante reception is empty!”
I struggled to comprehend her words.
“Mom, Leo is four years old.
He’s in intensive care, fighting for his life!”
“He’s got a cold!
Stop exaggerating everything,” she replied coldly.
“Leave him with that worthless husband of yours, put on your evening gown, and get here within fifteen minutes.
You’re supposed to be handing out programs.
If you miss Chloe’s gala, don’t bother calling yourself part of this family anymore!”
Before I could respond, she hung up.
I stared at the silent phone, feeling twenty-nine years of criticism, humiliation, and desperate attempts to earn my mother’s affection collapse into one unbearable realization.
Even with her grandson critically ill, she cared more about appearances than his survival.
David slowly rose from his chair.
