Part 2
Harper had wanted to see Scotland since she was a kid. She loved old history, ruined stone castles, and all the romantic, windswept loneliness of the Highlands. We planned every detail carefully—LAX to London to Edinburgh, a rental car, small inns in the Highlands, distillery tours, and castle stops scattered across thirteen days.
We paid for it the hard way, the way people like us pay for big dreams. We skipped dinners out. We passed on entertainment. We worked extra hours. We dropped birthday money and wedding gifts straight into the travel fund. When it was all added up, the trip cost $12,750.
I told my parents about it eight months in advance.
Eight months.
I gave them more than half a year to figure out child care, make arrangements, and adjust to the simple fact that my life no longer revolved around their needs. My mother just nodded and said, “That’s nice, honey,” as if I had announced I might try a new coffee shop.
There were no questions about the itinerary. No excitement that I was leaving the country for the first time. No recognition that this mattered to me. Just flat indifference.
Looking back, that should have been the warning.
The first real sign came four weeks before the trip. Harper and I were making breakfast on a Sunday morning when my mother called in her clipped, school-administrator voice.
“I need to talk to you about something.”
She told me she and my father had been invited to a wedding in Portland on September 4 and wanted me to watch the kids that weekend.
September 4 fell right in the middle of our honeymoon. We were supposed to be in the Highlands then, heading toward Loch Ness and Urquhart Castle.
“I can’t,” I said immediately. “I’ll be in Scotland. I told you that months ago.”
There was a pause.
“So you can’t postpone?” she asked. “Just a few days? We really can’t miss this wedding. It’s your father’s cousin’s daughter, and it would be rude.”
The audacity of it left me speechless for a second. They wanted me to reschedule my honeymoon so they could attend a distant family wedding for someone I had met twice.
“Mom, we paid $12,750 for this trip,” I said. “The flights alone were $4,200, and they’re nonrefundable. The hotels are booked and paid for. I’m not postponing my honeymoon.”
Her voice shifted immediately into wounded martyrdom.
“I just assumed family would come first. I didn’t realize we were such a burden now that you’re married.”
There it was. The accusation tucked neatly inside the self-pity.
“Family comes first” in her language always meant the same thing: your needs don’t matter, ours do.
I stayed firm, though it was harder than it should have been.
“You’ll need to hire a sitter or make another plan,” I said. “Harper and I are going to Scotland as scheduled.”
She hung up without saying goodbye.
The silent treatment started immediately. No calls. No follow-up. No responses. When I tried to reach the younger kids, six days passed before my mother finally texted me.
“We found someone. A neighbor’s daughter. She’s charging us $240 for the weekend. Hope you enjoy your trip.”
The passive-aggressive jab about the money was classic. My parents spent more than that on date nights and weekend outings all the time. They didn’t hate paying for child care because they couldn’t afford it. They hated paying for child care because the arrangement only worked when my labor was free.
We left LAX at 10:55 p.m. on August 28 for an overnight flight to London, then Edinburgh. I had already emailed my parents our itinerary and the dates we’d be gone, and I warned them that there would be stretches with limited service because we’d be in the Highlands.
My mother texted back one stiff word.
“Fine.”
My father said nothing at all.
Oddly enough, the silence was a relief. No guilt trips. No fake emergencies. No last-minute drama. Harper and I curled up in our economy seats, exhausted and excited, and for the first time in weeks I felt my shoulders unclench.
We landed at Heathrow on August 29, London time, with a layover before our connection to Edinburgh. We were tired and jet-lagged and planning to grab some bad airport food, stretch our legs, and survive until the next flight. I turned off airplane mode mostly out of habit.
It took less than a minute for the phone to connect.
Then it started vibrating.
Again.
And again.
