Not from the burns, but from betrayal. They weren’t supporting me. They were scheming.
Lisa’s kindness carried strings. No, chains. Invisible first.
Then tightening. Then cutting circulation. 
And suddenly I realized.
That wasn’t my daughter anymore. Not really.
She saw me as an account. A stubborn old woman living too long.
Behind her, Travis looked bored. Still waiting. Still expecting the card.
My hands trembled as I dabbed my legs with a napkin. No one offered help. My chest tightened.
My pulse roared. Lisa folded her arms and added, with that same icy smile,
“Either hand over the card or get out before nightfall.”
There it was. Not a plea.
A sentence. I looked at the spilled coffee, the broken mug. One shard near my foot.
Painted flowers. A remnant of something once lovely. Like me.
I didn’t argue. I didn’t weep. I walked slowly to the sink, cooled my burned hands beneath the tap, and shut it off.
Then I said:
“I’ll leave before dark.”
Lisa blinked. She expected a fight. But what she didn’t realize, what I finally remembered, was this:
Silence is not weakness.
And some debts are settled not with cash, but with patience and resolve. The door closed behind me, and I sat alone in the guest room. My legs still seared, but the real agony wasn’t from the coffee.
It was from knowing she meant it. She wanted me gone…
