I drove to Target, bought a latte, and walked past the grocery section without stopping. For once, I refused to turn someone else’s poor planning into my emergency.
I tried on a denim jacket, smelled candles, and spent several unnecessary minutes comparing throw pillows. My hands initially trembled with guilt. Then I remembered Alex stretched across the couch while I held a list of chores he had assigned me without asking.
Three hours later, I texted him that I was still at the store. His calls began almost immediately. I silenced my phone, not to punish him, but because answering would have pulled me back into managing everything from a distance.
When I finally reached our driveway, his family had already arrived. Through the window, I saw the vacuum abandoned in the middle of the room. The children were darting around the furniture, and Alex’s father had retreated to the porch.
Inside, a scorched frozen pizza sat on the counter. Alex was attempting to decorate a store-bought cheesecake with canned whipped cream. His mother held a limp slice of pizza on a salad fork.
“Where have you been?” Alex demanded.
“You told me to go to the store,” I replied calmly. “I did.”
His mother, Diane, studied my empty hands and then looked at her son. Her expression changed.
“Alex,” she said slowly, “you told us Amanda had been planning this dinner all week.”
