My phone buzzed. A text from Marcus: “Hey, can you grab dog food and some wine for the dinner party Friday? You’re the best.”
“Of course,” I typed back, my thumbs steady. “I’ll handle it.”
But as I watched the kids at their art class later that afternoon, the truth felt heavy in the room. They didn’t see a mother or a grandmother; they saw “free help.”
The kids’ drawings were full of vibrant color and life, unaware of the gray resentment beginning to coat my heart. I knew then that I couldn’t ignore the sting any longer. The script was poorly written, and I was the only one who could provide the edit.
