On Mother’s Day, my grown kids told me they had chosen the restaurant and expected me to pay for all twelve of them, just like always.

was not some simple brunch spot. It was the kind of restaurant where a glass of orange juice cost fourteen dollars and the waiter talked about butter as though it had earned a degree.

For fifteen years, Helen had paid for every birthday dinner, every holiday meal, every “quick family brunch” that somehow turned into a three-hour feast. She had bought continue reading …