credit.
I had simply wanted my mother to be okay.
And somehow, tonight, she had decided my children were too uncomfortable to sit at her dinner table.
Then I heard another voice in the background.
Brooke.
“What did he say?”
Mom answered quietly.
“He’s the one paying the gas.”
“What?”
“He’s the account holder.”
Brooke laughed.
Actually laughed.
“That’s impossible.”
I heard her footsteps.
Then her voice came through the phone.
“You’re seriously holding the heat hostage because you’re mad?”
I said nothing.
“Your niece and nephew are fine.”
I
