My father pointed toward a dark corner of the banquet hall and said, “Your children can sit over there, beside the flowerpots.”
My daughter Emily squeezed my hand. My son Noah lowered the handmade birthday card he had made for his grandmother. Across the room, my sister Brenda’s children were already seated at the main table like royalty.
I had paid for the entire party—my mother’s seventieth birthday, the venue, the cake, the bar, the band, everything. For years, I had also paid my parents’ bills, Brenda’s rent, school fees, repairs, and endless “temporary” loans.
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My wife Sarah had warned me many times.
“They don’t look for you, Kenneth. They look for your wallet.”