“At my age, my back needs the premium mattress,” she replied. “You and the children will stay in the ground-floor room by the parking garage. It’s more practical.”
I looked at David, expecting him to correct her.
He kept staring at his phone.
But I wasn’t about to let him escape this conversation.
“David,” I said quietly. “This is our anniversary trip.”
“Mom’s right, honey,” he muttered without lifting his eyes. “The kids will need to be near the pool anyway. It just makes sense.”
Beatrice smiled with all the warmth of spoiled milk.
“Don’t be selfish, dear. This trip is supposed to be relaxing for David, too. He works so hard.”
I glanced at my exhausted children, then back at my husband.
“So your mother gets the ocean-view suite,” I said evenly. “And I stay beside the parking garage.”
“With the kids,” Beatrice added cheerfully. “You’re their mother. They need you.”
“And where does David sleep?” I asked.
“With me, of course,” she answered as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “The suite has two bedrooms. You wouldn’t want him losing sleep because of the little ones, would you?”
Everything inside me suddenly became still.
Twelve years of swallowing my feelings.
Twelve years of canceled plans, hijacked holidays, and birthdays that never belonged to me.
Twelve years of David always taking the easiest route — one that inevitably walked straight over me.
“David,” I pleaded one last time. “Please…”
He finally met my eyes.
And what I found there stunned me.
There wasn’t a trace of guilt.
Only a weary, cowardly hope that I’d make this easier for him.
“It’s just a room, babe,” he mumbled. “Don’t make it weird.”
Just a room.
As though twelve years of coming second could somehow be measured in square footage.
Behind the desk, the hotel clerk awkwardly pretended to keep typing.
I could have argued.
I could’ve even grabbed a notebook and worked out the room assignments right there at check-in.
But I’d already lost.
A strange calm settled over me.
That was the exact moment I decided I was done.
“Okay,” I said softly.
Beatrice narrowed her eyes.
She’d expected a fight.
A fight would’ve let her play the victim.
“Okay?” she echoed.
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