“We’re all here waiting for you to make breakfast. Hurry up!”

I read the text message standing in the cereal aisle of the grocery store, holding a box of oatmeal in one hand and my phone in the other.

It was from my mother-in-law, Linda.

There was a picture attached. Our living room. Our couch, with Linda sitting in the middle of it with her feet up on our coffee table. Two kids on the floor in front of the TV. A man’s legs stretched out on our armchair. Suitcases. A lot of suitcases.

I counted the people in the picture. Then I counted again.

Six people were apparently sitting in my apartment, waiting for me to feed them.

I put the oatmeal back on the shelf and called my husband.

He picked up on the fifth ring. He sounded out of breath.

“Patrick,” I said. “Why is your mother in our apartment?”

“Because they’re visiting,” he said. “I told you.”

“And I told you we didn’t have room!”

There was a grunting sound, like he was lifting something heavy. Somebody laughed in the background. A kid yelled.

“Clarissa, I’m carrying luggage right now,” he said. “Can we talk about this later?”

He hung up.

I stood there in the cereal aisle, staring at my phone.

Then I left my shopping cart half-full in the middle of the aisle, with a gallon of milk and a bag of apples and two cans of soup still in it, and I walked out to my car.

By the next evening, Patrick would be the one standing in our kitchen, shouting and demanding answers.

And he’d have no idea how much his own words had cost him.