onLeave a Comment on At dinner, my sister threw water on my pregnant wife’s dress and sneered, “Don’t sit there, that’s my spot.” My mom laughed, “Pregnancy makes you clumsy,” while my dad sent her to eat in the kitchen. My wife silently grabbed her coat. I grabbed my keys—and called the travel concierge. “Cancel the first-class flights and VIP Mediterranean cruise resort.” On Monday, my family arrived at the airport with designer luggage. Then security escorted them out. 
I stared at the words on the screen.
It was undoubtedly a sprawling, desperate manifesto, a pathetic attempt to invoke the memory of a dutiful, submissive, people-pleasing son who no longer existed in this universe. She was begging for a financial bailout from the very wreckage they had actively, maliciously orchestrated through their own cruelty and entitlement.
