My daughter-in-law got a promotion. She took the whole family out to a restaurant to celebrate. But she didn’t invite me.Hours later, I received her text message: Remember to heat up the leftovers in the fridge. Don’t let them go to waste. I simply replied, “Okay.” Then I quietly packed my bags and left.That night, when they returned, laughing and a little drunk from the celebration, they opened the door, and what they saw inside left them completely frozen. It was 9:30 in the evening when my phone vibrated on the kitchen table. I was sitting there in front of a bowl of instant ramen that I didn’t even feel like eating.

The house smelled of floor cleaner and loneliness. I had spent the entire afternoon cleaning every corner, ironing my son Julian’s shirts, folding my grandchildren’s clothes. My hands still smelled like bleach.I picked up the phone, thinking maybe it was my son, saying they were on their way, that there was a place for me at that table where they were celebrating. But no, it was a message from Victoria, my daughter-in-law: Remember to heat up the leftovers in the fridge. Don’t let them go to waste.

I read those words once, twice, three times. I felt something inside my chest crack in silence, like when a porcelain cup falls to the floor but makes no sound until it’s already broken. It wasn’t just the message.It was the tone, the hidden mockery behind each word. It was knowing that while I ate alone in this house I helped pay for, they were toasting with glasses of wine at the Summit Grill, that place where the cheapest dish costs $45. I opened Instagram.