My father tried to soften the situation. “Your mom thought the restaurant would be easier.”
“Emily cooked for three days,” I replied.
“She’s a child,” my mother dismissed. “She’ll get over it.”
“She’s your granddaughter,” I said firmly. “And she worked herself to exhaustion for you.”
Emily flinched. My father finally looked at her. “We didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“But you did,” I said.
My mother claimed she hadn’t known how much Emily was cooking. I told her she never bothered to ask. She turned to Emily. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t think I had to,” Emily said quietly.
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