I could have sent the medication list.
I could have called and walked her through everything.
I could have driven across town, checked Dad’s pills, organized his morning, and returned home before Dany woke up.
That was what the old version of me would have done.
She would have swallowed the humiliation, completed the work, and waited for an apology that never came.
Instead, I typed one word.
“Remember.”
Remember what you said about my son.
Remember the plate you pulled away.
Remember the laughter.
Remember the way you looked at a four-year-old child and decided he needed to know he ranked below someone else.
Remember it the next time you need someone “real” to show up.
Her reply arrived less than a minute later.
There was no apology.
There was no acknowledgment of Dany.
She did not ask whether he was okay.
She did not say the family had gone too far.
