By morning, my daughter-in-law, Brittany, had commented.
“God, did she even look at this picture before posting it? A wrinkled body like that should be hidden from everyone. Gross!”
I stared at those words until my eyes burned.
Then she deleted the comment.
Too late.
I had already taken a screenshot.
George found me at the kitchen table holding the printed page.
He read it once and sighed.
“She probably meant to send it to someone else.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“No,” he admitted quietly. “It doesn’t.”
I called Brittany because my mother had taught me that people deserve a chance to explain themselves.
She answered with an irritated sigh.
“Mary?”
“I saw your comment.”
“So?”
“I was wondering if you meant what you wrote.”
“You embarrassed this family online,” she snapped. “My children don’t need to see that kind of behavior normalized. Stay away from them.”
I felt my stomach tighten.
“Are you saying I can’t see my grandchildren because of a photograph?”
“Exactly.”
Then she hung up.
I sat there with the phone against my ear, listening to silence.
George reached for my hand.
“I’ll talk to Edward.”
