My chest tightened.
I reached for her hand.
“We’re leaving,” I said.
No one stopped us.
The drive home was quiet.
Lily sat in the backseat, staring out the window. After a while, her small voice broke the silence.
“Mom… was I rude?”
That question broke something in me.
I glanced at her in the mirror—at her face trying to make sense of a world that suddenly felt complicated.
“No,” I said gently. “You weren’t rude.”
“But Grandpa was mad.”
“I know,” I said softly. “Sometimes people get upset when we don’t do what they expect—even if we’re not doing anything wrong.”
She thought about that.
“I just didn’t like how he talked to you,” she said.
I swallowed hard.
“I didn’t either.”
That night, after I tucked her into bed, I sat alone on the couch, replaying everything.
Had I handled it right?
Should I have stepped in sooner? Smoothed things over?
My husband called later from his business trip.
I told him what happened.
There was a pause.
Then he sighed.
“I think… you should’ve had her apologize,” he said. “Just to keep the peace. Dad was embarrassed.”
Something sank in my chest.
“She didn’t do anything wrong,” I said quietly.
