I’ve seen friends go through it, and it’s not something I’d wish on anyone.
But somewhere along the way, Paige’s hard time became the gravitational center of our entire family.
Every conversation with my parents circled back to Paige.
“How’s Paige doing?”
“Paige is having a tough week.”
“Paige needs support right now.”
“You should call Paige.”
“Can you send Paige some money?”
“Can you check in on Paige?”
It was constant.
And I did those things, by the way.
I called her. I sent her money a few times when she was between jobs. I drove down on a Saturday once to help her move some furniture.
I’m not heartless.
But at some point, it started to feel like I was being drafted into a full-time support role that nobody asked me if I wanted.
The visit happened about 3 weeks ago.
My parents and Paige drove up to stay with us for a long weekend.
It was supposed to be a nice family thing.
See the house, catch up, maybe grill some burgers, act like a normal family for 72 hours.
Jenna and I cleaned the whole house, set up the guest rooms, stocked the fridge, even bought that fancy sparkling water my mom likes because regular water apparently isn’t good enough.
They arrived on a Friday afternoon.
Dad walked in, looked around, and gave me one of those nods that’s supposed to pass for a compliment.
Mom hugged Jenna and immediately started rearranging the throw pillows on the couch because apparently ours were in the wrong configuration.
Classic Diane.
Paige came in last, rolling a suitcase that was roughly the size of a small refrigerator, which should have been my first warning sign.
We were talking about a three-night stay.
She packed like she was relocating.
The first evening was fine.
We had dinner, laughed about some old stories.
Jenna made her famous garlic bread, and even my dad, who compliments nothing, said it was pretty good.
I started to relax.
Maybe this would actually be a nice weekend.
Then Saturday morning happened.
I was in the kitchen making coffee when my mom walked in with that look on her face.
If you’ve ever had a mother who’s about to ask you for something she knows you won’t like, you know the look.
It’s this weird combination of sweetness and determination, like a hostage negotiator who brought cookies.
She sat down at the counter, folded her hands, and said, “Honey, we need to talk about the sleeping situation.”
I should mention that we’d put my parents in the larger guest room with the queen bed and Paige in the smaller guest room with the full-size bed.
Both rooms had fresh sheets, clean towels, even those little hotel chocolates on the pillows because Jenna is thoughtful like that.
I thought we’d covered our bases.
I thought wrong.
My mom took a sip of coffee, smiled that smile, and said something that made me set my mug down very slowly.
She said, “Paige has been having terrible back pain from the divorce stress, and that full-size bed just isn’t going to work. She needs a king. And since you and Jenna have that beautiful king-size bed, maybe you two could switch with Paige for the weekend. Just for the weekend.”
She said it like she was asking me to pass the sugar.
Like it was the most reasonable request in the history of reasonable requests.
And just like that, the weekend I’d been cautiously optimistic about was about to go completely sideways.
I stood there in my kitchen holding my coffee, staring at my mother like she just asked me to donate a kidney to a stranger she met at the grocery store.
Give up our bed.
Our bed.
The bed that Jenna and I sleep in every night, in our house that we pay the mortgage on every single month.
That bed.
For Paige.
Because of back pain from divorce stress.
I didn’t even know that was a medical condition, but apparently in my family, Paige’s discomfort overrides all known property rights.
I took a breath.
I said, “Mom, no. We’re not switching beds. The guest rooms are set up. They’re comfortable. And Paige is welcome to use either one. But Jenna and I are sleeping in our room, in our bed.”
Simple, clear, reasonable.