The text came at 4:47 on a Thursday. I remember because I was watching the kettle before it started whistling.
“You’re choosing yourself over your own grandchildren, and that’s a hill you want to die on. Fine.”
That was Caroline — the daughter I raised on overtime pay, macaroni dinners, and forty-one years at the Decatur post office.
I read the message twice. Then the kettle started screaming, and I let it.
All I’d done was say no to Memorial Day weekend. Caroline and her husband Wade wanted me to watch Hudson, four, and baby May, eight months old, while they went to Hilton Head.
But I had cataract surgery scheduled that Tuesday, with a 7 a.m. pre-op Saturday. The doctor told me to rest.
So I said gently, “Honey, can you ask Wade’s mother, or maybe move the trip a week?”