I was lingering near the organic produce when I recognized her distinctive winter coat.

For one stupidly hopeful second, I almost called out her name.

Then I noticed she had her AirPods in and was deep in conversation.

I didn’t want to eavesdrop, so I pivoted to turn down the cereal aisle.

That was when I heard her mention my name.

I froze in my tracks.

“She actually thought we’d keep coming around to kiss the ring after she cut everyone off,” Alyssa snickered.

My knuckles turned white around the handle of my shopping cart.

I frantically told myself I was missing vital context.

Then she kept talking.

“Carter says we should just wait her out. She’s getting old. We just have to wait. Eventually she’ll die, and we’ll get the house anyway.”

The entire supermarket seemed to blur and fade away.

The cheesy pop music playing from the ceiling speakers.

A toddler whining about wanting fruit snacks.

The clatter of a cart rolling over the linoleum.

Alyssa lowered her voice, but I still caught every agonizing syllable.

The house would probably sell for way more than $800,000 by the time I was gone.

Carter had already mapped out exactly what he was going to do with his third of the equity.

And according to Alyssa, there was absolutely no point “pretending to care” while I was throwing a tantrum.

I stood frozen behind a pyramid of canned tomatoes and finally digested a truth I had spent months aggressively ignoring.

My kids hadn’t cut me off because I had broken their hearts.

They were actively punishing me.

They truly believed that their affection was a commodity I was required to purchase.

And somewhere along the line, they had already mentally transferred the deed of my home into their own names.

I abandoned my cart right there in aisle four.