My Son Texted Me: “You Weren’t Invited To Dinner, My Wife Doesn’t Want You There”.

I had just set two plates on the oak table—habit is a stubborn thing—when my phone buzzed beside the salt shaker.

My son’s name glowed on the screen: Garrett. At seventy-seven, I still believed a mother’s hope could bridge any distance, so I smiled first and read second.

“Mom, I’m sorry. We can’t make it tonight. Marissa’s hosting her coworkers. We’ll reschedule.”

Strange. Yesterday he’d called insisting I had to be there. I was already in the navy dress he once called “classic.” I checked the roast, straightened the napkins, told myself not to overthink it.

Then a second message arrived—short, bright, merciless:

“You weren’t invited to dinner. My wife doesn’t want you there.”