For twelve years, my husband Michael took the same vacation at the same time every summer. One full week in July, always to “the islands,” always explained as a family tradition his mother insisted on—one that somehow excluded spouses and children. I stayed behind each year, keeping life moving, accepting it as a compromise. His mother, Helen, was polite but distant, and I convinced myself it wasn’t personal. Still, as the years passed, the silence around those trips began to feel less like tradition and more like exclusion.
This year, the unease wouldn’t settle. One restless night, I replayed twelve summers of unanswered questions and realized I no longer felt calm—I felt invisible. The next morning, alone in the kitchen, I called Helen.
