My 8-year-old son came home, hugged me, and whispered, “They ate at a restaurant while I waited in the car for two hours.” I didn’t ask any questions. I simply grabbed my keys, drove to my parents’ house, walked in, and without hesitation, I did this…

“He didn’t want to come in,” my mom stammered, wringing the towel in her hands. “He was being fussy in the car. He threw a little fit about his shoes. We figured… we figured it would be better to let him sit and cool off.”

“Cool off?” I roared. “In a ninety-degree car?”

“We cracked the windows!” my dad shouted back, defensive now. “And we checked on him halfway through. It was only two hours, for God’s sake. Stop being dramatic.”

“Who were you with?” I asked. I already suspected the answer.

“We met your sister,” my mom said quietly. “And the grandkids.”

There it was. My sister, Sarah. Her two children. A table for five at a nice Italian restaurant. They hadn’t just forgotten him; they had actively excluded him. They had made a reservation that didn’t include him.

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