“Then do it without the attitude,” Diane said. “A real daughter wouldn’t keep score.”
“I am not keeping score,” I said, though I could picture the exact spreadsheet rows on my laptop at home.
“I wish you had never been my daughter,” Diane said, her voice steady and perfectly clear.
The table went quiet. A family at the next booth laughed at something their waiter said, the sound bright and loud.
“Then live as if you never had one,” I said.
George stood up, keeping his hand on my wrist until I was standing beside him.
I picked up my red leather purse, sliding the strap over my shoulder. I did not look back at the cheesecake.
The afternoon sun was hot against the concrete, radiating through the soles of my shoes as we walked across the parking lot.
My black SUV was parked near the exit, its dark paint catching the glare of the southern sky.
“Are you alright?” George asked as we reached the passenger side.
“I am fine,” I said.
