My parents refused to care for my younger kids while I tended to my oldest with leukemia; I called my ex-husband, but he said: “You’re just a poor writer, deal with it”

my mother that unanswered text, I made the mistake of scrolling through the family thread instead of closing it.

My mother had posted after all.

Just not to me.

A photograph from garden club.

A dozen women in pastel cardigans around a long table with little sandwiches and a banner that said spring lunchon.

My mother sat in the middle, laughing with a pale drink in her hand.

The caption said, “So blessed by my girls, 41 likes.”

I stared longer than I should have.

At the bottom was a