One bag held dinner rolls, salad, and juice boxes for the children. The other held a small chocolate cake from the bakery near my apartment.
But I had not brought the roasted chicken. I had not made the mashed potatoes. I had not touched the gravy.
My mother had made that meal.
Another call came in, this time from my father.
I answered, but I said nothing.
“Claire!” he barked, though his voice cracked halfway through my name. “Where are you?”
“At dinner with my children.”
“You need to come back.”
“No.”
“You don’t understand. Your mother’s blood pressure is through the roof. Vanessa’s kids are sick. The ambulance is on the way.”
I closed my eyes.
My anger did not disappear. It changed form. It became colder, calmer, steadier.
“Then talk to the paramedics,” I said.
“You caused this,” he snapped. “You upset everybody.”
That almost made me laugh.
“I caused food poisoning from three miles away?”
There was a pause.
“What?”
“The kids who ate first are vomiting. My kids didn’t eat. Think about that.”
On the other end of the call, my father was breathing hard. Behind him, I could hear crying, retching, chairs scraping against the floor, and my mother wailing that she did not want to go to the hospital.
I lowered my voice. “Do not call me again unless a doctor needs medical information. And do not ever blame my children for the consequences of your cruelty.”
“Claire—”
I hung up.
