Chapter 13 - Betsy Tries to Make My Parents Pay
Betsy called Mom herself.
Mom let it ring twice before answering.
“Hello?”
“Ellen, this is Betsy.”
“I know.”
There was an awkward pause.
“I was wondering whether you and Roy would have dinner with me.”
Mom later told me her first instinct was no.
Not from anger.
From exhaustion.
Some relationships cost energy before they provide anything back.
Then Betsy said:
“Naomi told me you like a barbecue restaurant.”
Mom immediately knew I was involved.
She smiled despite herself.
“Which one?”
“Apparently the menus are laminated.”
“That narrows it down.”
Betsy laughed.
A genuine one.
They agreed to meet.
No villa.
No designer setting.
No content.
Just smoked ribs, paper napkins and sweet tea.
Dad wore the same feed-store cap.
I think intentionally.
Betsy noticed.
Said nothing.
That was progress.
Halfway through dinner, the waitress brought the check.
Betsy reached for it.
Dad reached too.
“I invited you,” Betsy said.
“You drove six hours last time.”
“Roy.”
“I’m paying for my ribs.”
“You are my guests.”
Dad stared at her.
Then grinned.
“Fine. But I’m leaving the tip.”
Mom rolled her eyes.
“Two grown adults fighting over nineteen-dollar ribs.”
Betsy laughed.
Not polite laughter.
Actual laughter.
Then Dad asked:
“How’s the condo?”
“Small.”
“You need big?”
“No.”
“Then sounds efficient.”
Betsy looked at him.
“You really don’t care about impressive things, do you?”
Dad thought.
“I like tractors.”
“That counts.”
“Only if they start.”
It became, strangely, a good dinner.
Not sentimental.
Not magical.
No one became best friends.
But good.
Then something unexpected happened.
A woman at another table recognized Betsy.
From the viral video.
She approached cautiously.
“Excuse me.”
Betsy’s smile faded.
The woman looked toward Mom and Dad.
“Are you…”
She stopped.
Mom sighed.
“Yes.”
The woman brightened.
“Oh my gosh.”
Dad muttered:
“Here we go.”
She wanted a picture.
Mom politely declined.
The woman apologized.
Then looked at Betsy.
“You were awful.”
The restaurant went silent around them.
Betsy could have snapped.
A year earlier, she would have.
Instead she nodded.
“Yes.”
The woman looked surprised.
Betsy continued.
“I was.”
Nothing else.
No explanation.
No defense.
The woman left.
Mom stared at Betsy.
“That was uncomfortable.”
“Yes.”
“You handled it well.”
Betsy looked down.
“I’ve had practice.”
The internet had faded, but consequences lingered.
Betsy lost several social-circle friendships after selling the house.
People she thought were close stopped calling when she stopped hosting lavish dinners.
At first she mourned them.
Then she realized she had been financing many of those relationships too.
Country club friends disappeared.
A neighbor she barely knew began inviting her for coffee.
Life reorganized.
Money had been covering emptiness.
Once removed, some spaces stayed empty.
Others filled with something better.
After dinner, Dad left the tip.
Forty dollars on a sixty-dollar share of food.
Betsy stared.
“That’s too much.”
Dad shrugged.
“Girl worked hard.”
“You always tip like that?”
“When I can.”
Betsy smiled.
There was an irony in watching the “people who didn’t know how to behave” demonstrate generosity without performance.
On the drive home, Mom called me.
“It was nice.”
“Nice?”
“Don’t sound shocked.”
“I am shocked.”
“People can improve.”
Dad shouted:
“Some!”
Mom ignored him.
“She’s trying.”
That was enough.
But reconciliation brought a new challenge.
How much access should repaired relationships receive?
Betsy began calling more.
Not excessively.
Then inviting herself to small things.
A Sunday lunch.
A birthday.
One weekend trip.
Each time, Lucas hesitated.
Not because he hated her.
Because old patterns could return quietly.
One afternoon, Betsy asked:
“Why do I need permission for everything now?”
Lucas answered:
“Because you used to treat invitations as ownership.”
She didn’t like it.
But she accepted it.
Mostly.
Then came Mom’s sixty-eighth birthday.
We planned dinner at our house.
Small.
My parents.
Lucas.
Pamela.
Betsy.
At 4 p.m., Betsy arrived three hours early.
With caterers.
Flowers.
A cake from an expensive bakery.
A violinist.
I opened the door.
Stared.
“Surprise.”
My stomach dropped.
It looked generous.
It was exactly the old pattern.
Taking over.
Turning someone else’s event into her production.
“Betsy.”
Her smile faltered.
“What?”
“I said dinner.”
“Yes. I improved it.”
“No.”
She stared.
The caterers waited.
The violinist adjusted his case.
I could see the old conflict assembling itself.
Betsy’s face hardened.
“I paid for all of this.”
“I know.”
“Then what is the problem?”
“It isn’t what Mom wants.”
“She’ll love it.”
“Did you ask?”
Silence.
There it was.
The essential question.
Did you ask?
Betsy looked toward the truck unloading elaborate flower arrangements.
Her eyes filled with frustration.
“I was trying to do something nice.”
“I believe you.”
“Then why are you angry?”
“I’m not angry.”
I stepped closer.
“But generosity doesn’t become permission.”
That sentence hit her.
For a moment, I thought she would explode.
Instead she looked at the violinist.
Then the caterers.
Then the flowers.
And took a breath.
“What does Ellen want?”
“Takeout Chinese food and chocolate cake.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
Another breath.
Then Betsy turned around.
She canceled the production.
Paid everyone anyway.
Kept one simple bouquet.
And three hours later, she sat at my kitchen table eating lo mein out of a cardboard carton.
Mom loved the flowers.
Dad ate too much cake.
Pamela laughed until she cried when Lucas attempted to use chopsticks.
At the end of the night, Betsy quietly said:
“I almost did it again.”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
“I thought spending more would make it better.”
“Yes.”
She looked around the table.
“It wouldn’t have.”
“No.”
She smiled.
“I’m learning.”
She was.
Slowly.
Then Dad raised his glass.
“Here’s to cheap noodles.”
Everyone laughed.
And somehow, that silly toast marked something important.
May you like
Because money had finally stopped being the loudest person in the room.
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