“When you picture this trip,” I said, “who are you thinking about when you make decisions about how to spend each day?”
He paused. “What do you mean?”
“I mean: are you thinking about what you and I want to do, and then seeing how your mother fits in? Or are you thinking about what works for your mother, and I’m the one fitting in?”
He was quiet for a long moment.
“Because I think those are different trips,” I said. “And I think you may have been planning one while telling me we were planning the other.”
“That’s not fair,” he said. “I’m trying to balance –“
“I know you are. I’m not saying you’re doing it on purpose. I’m saying that the trip you’re describing is a different trip than the one we agreed on, and I don’t think you’ve fully recognized that.”
“So what are you saying? You’re not going to go?”
“I’m saying that the trip we planned doesn’t exist anymore. What exists now is a family trip to the coast where your mother is an equal participant. And that might be a fine thing to do — maybe it’s even a trip worth taking. But I didn’t agree to that trip. I agreed to a different one.”
“Olivia.”
“I haven’t decided yet,” I said. “I’m telling you where I am.”
He leaned forward. “What would it take? What do I need to do?”
“I don’t know that there’s anything to do at this point. You could call and cancel the second room, but that would mean telling your mother it’s canceled, and I know that’s not something you’re going to do.”