My mom invited everyone to her sixtieth birthday except me and my eight-year-old. In the family group chat, she wrote, “All my children brought this family respect except Erica. She chose to be a lowly single mom. I no longer see her as my daughter.”

I didn’t cry.

The next time she saw me, she went pale.

Because if you’ve never had your child ask you a question that makes your blood go cold, I hope you never do. It’s like someone quietly pulls the floor out from under you, but you still have to stand there and smile because your kid needs dinner, not a breakdown.

It was one of those regular Tuesday nights that are only regular if you don’t count the fact that elementary schools run on chaos and glitter. My daughter, Daisy, was at the kitchen table doing her spelling words, hunched over the page with her tongue poking out the side of her mouth—her I’m taking this very seriously face. I was half listening and half packing her lunch, trying to remember if tomorrow was crazy hair day or favorite color day. Schools love a theme.

My mother loved a standard.

I was circling “because” on Daisy’s worksheet when she appeared at my elbow, holding her kid phone in both hands. Her eyes were big—not teary yet, just unsure.

“Mom,” she said.

“Yeah, baby?”

She swallowed. “What does ‘lowly’ mean?”

The word landed on the table between us like a broken plate. I kept my face neutral the way you do when a child says something alarming and you’re trying not to scare them.

“Where did you see that?” I asked, like she’d found a new vocabulary word in a book and not in the mouth of my mother.

Daisy turned the phone toward me. “Caleb sent me this.”

My stomach dropped.

Caleb is my sister Ivonne’s son. He’s ten. Old enough to read everything. Young enough to still think adults are mostly sensible.

Daisy added quickly, “He said I wasn’t supposed to show you, but I didn’t like it and I didn’t understand it.”

On the screen was a screenshot of a family group chat. Not my chat. Not my school-moms chat. The other one. The family one. The one my mother treated like it was her personal bulletin board.

My eyes went straight to my mom’s message. It was written like an announcement, like she was canceling an event, like she was firing an employee.

“60th birthday dinner, Saturday at 6. Everyone is invited except Erica.”

And then, in case anyone wasn’t clear on the reasoning: “All my children brought this family respect except Erica. She chose to be a lowly single mom. I no longer see her as my daughter.”

Under it were reactions.

My dad—my actual father—had responded with a thumbs up.

Ivonne had reacted with a heart.

My brother Philip wrote, “Agreed.”

My younger sister Mallerie didn’t write anything. She just liked it. Like my mom had posted a photo of her new curtains. Like my disowning was a home décor choice.

No one mentioned Daisy. Not once.

I heard the faint hum of our fridge. I noticed a crumb on the table. My brain did that emergency thing where it gets weirdly quiet and efficient, like it’s trying to save battery.

Daisy watched my face carefully the way kids do. Eight-year-olds don’t need explanations. They need one look.

I forced my voice to stay soft. “Lowly,” I said, “is a word people use when they want to make someone feel small.”

Daisy frowned. “Why would anyone want to do that?”

Because my mother thinks love is earned with image, I almost said.

Instead, I said, “Sometimes grown-ups get weird.”

Daisy looked at the screen again. “Grandma wrote that about you.”

I nodded once. “Yeah.”

She hesitated. “Did you do something bad?”

There it was. The question under every child’s question. If an adult is cruel, a child assumes someone must have deserved it, because the alternative is terrifying.

I reached for Daisy’s hand. “No,” I said. “I didn’t do anything bad. And neither did you.”

Her eyes shimmered. She didn’t cry. Daisy is stubborn. That’s mine. My mother would call it unfortunate.

I took the phone gently and set it face down on the table like it was radioactive. Then I did the next thing my brain demanded: I tried to open the family chat myself.

I tapped the group name in my messages.

Nothing.

I searched.

Nothing.

I scrolled back like it might be hiding between dentist appointment reminders and pay-electric-bill notes.

Nothing.

My chest tightened. I hadn’t missed an invite.

I’d been erased.

Daisy whispered, “So we’re not invited.”

I swallowed hard. “No.”

She stared at her spelling sheet like it had betrayed her. “But Grandma always has a birthday.”

That simple line—the one that wasn’t dramatic at all—hurt more than the screenshot because it wasn’t about me. It was about Daisy realizing her place in the family had conditions, too.

I took a slow breath. “Daisy,” I said, keeping my voice steady, “go brush your teeth, okay? And pick your dragon book. The dragon always wins.”

She hesitated at the doorway. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” I said, and it wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. I was upright. I was breathing. I was still a mom in a kitchen with spelling words and lunchboxes. That counts as okay.

Daisy padded away.

I stared at the screenshot again. The words didn’t blur. They didn’t soften. They didn’t become less true because I wanted them to.

Then my phone buzzed.

Ivonne.

Of course.

I answered because I needed one thing before I moved: confirmation. Not for my feelings—for my sanity.

“Erica,” Ivonne said, already sounding irritated, like I had inconvenienced her by being disowned.

“Listen,” I said. “Is it real?”

A pause. A sigh.

“You saw it,” she said. “So it’s real. Mom was upset.”

“You know how she gets.”

“She told the whole family I’m not her daughter anymore.”

“Why are you making this such a big thing?” Ivonne snapped.

My grip tightened around the phone. “Because my eight-year-old just brought me your mom’s message,” I said calmly. “Caleb sent Daisy a screenshot and she asked me what ‘lowly’ means.”

There was silence.

Not shocked silence. Not embarrassed silence. Just recalculating silence.

“Caleb shouldn’t have sent that,” Ivonne finally said, missing the point so completely it almost felt like a choice.

“Okay,” I said. “So you’re confirming it’s real.”

Ivonne exhaled sharply. “It’s Mom’s birthday. Don’t start drama.”

I looked at the screenshot again. My dad’s thumbs up. Philip’s “Agreed.” Mallerie’s like. The whole family lining up behind her like my existence was optional.

“I’m not starting drama,” I said. “I’m ending contact.”

Ivonne scoffed. “Unbelievable.”

I didn’t argue. I didn’t defend myself. I didn’t plead like I was applying to be loved.

I said, “Tell Mom she got what she wanted.”

Then I hung up.

I blocked my mom. I blocked my dad. I blocked Ivonne, Philip, and Mallerie.

No warning, no paragraph, no emotional TED talk—just silence.

Because I wasn’t going to perform my pain for people who treated it like a nuisance.

When Daisy came back in her pajamas, holding her dragon book, she climbed into my lap like she always did. Her small body was warm and heavy and real.

“Read?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said, kissing her hair.

We read.

And while the dragon defeated monsters and saved villages, I made a promise I meant with my whole chest: no one would ever make my child feel lowly. Not on my watch.

And if you’re wondering why I’m telling you this, why I’m still calm enough to put words to it at all, here’s the only thing you need to know for now: the next time my family saw me, their faces went pale, and they regretted everything.

Families like mine don’t usually start with one big, cinematic betrayal. They start with small cuts. Little oops moments you can explain away if you’re desperate enough to keep believing you belong.

My mom—Phyllis on paper, Mom in my life—was obsessed with image. Not influencer image. Older, polished, the kind of image built in church foyers and neighborhood gatherings where everyone pretends their lives are fine.

We were middle class, but my mom treated middle class like a temporary condition. Like we were all one correct choice away from being admired.

Ivonne was the golden child. Ivonne could sneeze wrong and my mom would call it cute.

Philip was the brag-worthy one. Not because he was kind—because he looked successful. He had a job title people nodded at and a car he waxed like it was a personality.

Mallerie was the quiet one. The peacemaker. The don’t-upset-Mom sister. Mallerie could watch a house burn down and whisper, “Let’s not make a scene.”

And then there was me.

I wasn’t reckless. I wasn’t irresponsible. I got good grades. I worked. I paid my bills. I showed up with casseroles and gifts and a smile that said, Please don’t decide I’m too much today.

But I wasn’t effortless.

My mom loved effortless people—people who made her look like she’d done everything right.

So when I got pregnant with Daisy, the first words out of my mom’s mouth weren’t, “Are you okay?” They were, “Are you married?”

A hypothetical question. She knew I wasn’t married.

“No.”

“Engaged?”

“No.”

Her face tightened like she’d swallowed something bitter.

“People will talk.”

People. Always people.

I told her I was keeping my baby. I said it calmly. I meant it.

My mom did the things that looked like support. She visited. She brought a blanket. She took one photo and then asked very casually, “Don’t post it with any details, okay? I don’t want questions.”

That’s the kind of sentence you don’t hear properly until years later.

My mom didn’t hate Daisy as a person. She hated what Daisy represented: a life that didn’t match the family narrative.

And over time, that turned into mistakes.

The first one I really remember happened when Daisy was three.

There was a family barbecue at my aunt’s house. Everyone was talking about it for weeks. Ivonne was coordinating sides. Philip was coordinating nothing, but still took credit. My mom was coordinating the vibe.

My invitation never came. Not a text. Not a call. Not a “Hey, are you coming?”

Nothing.

I found out afterward when Ivonne mentioned, “Oh, you should’ve seen Dad trying to grill. It was hilarious.”

I smiled like I wasn’t choking. “I didn’t even know about it.”

Ivonne blinked. Then she did the fake surprised face.

“Wait, what? Mom said she told you.”

“She didn’t.”

“You’re kidding,” Ivonne said, in the tone of someone inconvenienced by reality. “Well, of course you can come next time.”

Next time.

Like I was asking to be added to a mailing list.

I wanted to believe it was a mistake, because the alternative was admitting my family could pretend I didn’t exist.

Then it happened again.

Different event, same feeling. Someone mentioned something small afterward like it wasn’t a big deal I wasn’t there.

When I asked, my mom said, “Oh, I thought you knew.”

I didn’t accuse. I didn’t scream. I did that thing women do when they’re trying to stay lovable: I swallowed it and told myself I was being sensitive.

Then the kids started echoing the adults.

One day Daisy and Caleb were playing in the living room while the adults talked in the kitchen. I was rinsing dishes when I heard Caleb’s voice drift in—casual and confident.

“Grandma said you guys don’t come to stuff because your mom makes things complicated.”

Daisy went still.

“My mom isn’t complicated,” she said.

“That’s what Grandma said,” Caleb started again, then saw my face and stopped.

Kids repeat what they hear. They don’t understand the weight of it. They just hand it over like a toy.

I dried my hands, walked in, and knelt down so I was eye level with both of them.

“Caleb,” I said gently, “if Grandma says something about me, you don’t need to bring it into this room, okay?”

Caleb’s face flushed. Daisy’s eyes filled.

And in that moment, I realized something that changed how I saw everything: my mother wasn’t just judging me. She was teaching the next generation how to judge me, too.

That’s when I started drawing lines. Not dramatic lines—real ones. Doors that close.

“If Daisy isn’t welcome, neither am I,” I said.

I said it calmly. I meant it.

My mom would nod like she understood, then later act like she’d never heard the words.

Because people like my mother don’t see boundaries as reality. They see them as tantrums you’ll outgrow when you need something.

Then came the group chat message. The one Daisy saw first.

My mom didn’t just exclude me.

She wrote it down.

She made it official.

My dad and siblings agreed like it was normal.

And that’s when I realized the mistakes weren’t mistakes.

People think no contact is dramatic.

It isn’t.

It’s mostly quiet.

No one shows up at your door with a sad violin soundtrack. You just stop receiving calls, stop checking your phone, stop rehearsing conversations in your head that will never give you the parent you wanted.

At first, that quiet feels unnatural, like you left the house without your keys.

Then, slowly, it starts to feel like oxygen.

Over the next three years, Daisy grew from eight to eleven. Her voice got louder, her legs got longer, her opinions got stronger.

At first she watched me carefully, like she was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Then she stopped waiting.

She got busy being a kid again until one day she said out of nowhere, “Mom, I’m glad our house is quiet.”

Kids understand more than we think. They just don’t always have the words right away.

Money was still real, though.

Single motherhood isn’t a vibe.

It’s math.

And math doesn’t care that my mother disowned me in a group chat. Math says rent, groceries, child care, the random school fee that shows up like an ambush and expects to be paid in full by tomorrow.

So I worked. Not in a cute boss-babe way—in a my kid is asleep and I’m still awake because I refuse to let her life shrink way.

During the day, I was Daisy’s whole world. At night, when the apartment finally went quiet, I sat at the kitchen table with my laptop and a very simple goal.

If my mother wanted to call me lowly, fine.

I’d be lonely.

I’d be lonely and unstoppable.

I started helping a few local businesses get their mess under control. Not because I loved business—because I loved food in the fridge and my daughter sleeping without hearing me panic.

It was work no one bragged about, which made it perfect for me.

I didn’t need applause.

I needed traction.

Then I noticed something.

Everybody was drowning for the same reason: no system. Just chaos and hope.

And hope is not a strategy.

So I built one.

Nothing fancy. Nothing that needed a TED talk. Just something clean that kept people on track and kept money from slipping through cracks.

It worked.

People started asking for it, then sharing it, then forwarding it to friends like it was contraband.

And suddenly I wasn’t chasing clients anymore.

My inbox was chasing me.

When we hit three thousand paying users, I stared at the number like it might evaporate if I blinked.

Three years earlier, I was counting grocery money.

Now I was building something that could actually carry us.

And Daisy—sweet, blunt Daisy—looked at me one night and said, “Mom, you don’t look scared anymore.”

That’s when I knew it had really changed.

Then a small local business article mentioned my company. Nothing flashy, just enough to put my name somewhere public.

I didn’t share it.

I didn’t post it.

I didn’t tag anyone.

But I forgot one thing.

My family still had eyes.

The first attempt to reenter didn’t come with an apology.

Of course not.

It came with an unknown number on my phone and a voicemail that started with my mother’s voice, pretending we hadn’t been strangers for three years.

“Erica,” she said, bright and practiced. “Call me. We need to talk.”

Need. Not want.

Need.

Then she added, like she was offering me something: “I saw you’re doing very well. I always knew you would.”

I deleted it.

The second attempt came through Ivonne, because Ivonne loves being a messenger when it gives her power.

A text from a new number: It’s Ivonne. Mom wants to make peace. Don’t be stubborn.

No.

I’m sorry.

No, that was wrong.

Just don’t be stubborn.

Like my boundaries were an attitude problem.

I didn’t reply.

The third attempt was the one that made my blood run cold.

Daisy’s kid phone buzzed at breakfast. She glanced at the screen and slid it toward me without a word.

Grandma flashed at the top.

My mom had found Daisy’s number.

I stared at it like it was a snake in my kitchen.

Daisy watched me, jaw tight. “I didn’t give it to her,” she said quickly. “I swear.”

“I know,” I said.

And I meant it.

Daisy isn’t sneaky. She’s honest in that blunt-kid way that makes you want to apologize to every adult who ever misread you.

I let it go to voicemail.

My mom’s voice chirped through the speaker like she was calling about a bake sale.

“Hi, Daisy. It’s Grandma. Tell your mom to call me back. I miss you. I have something special for you.”

Something special.

My mother’s favorite bait.

Daisy’s face twisted. “I don’t want something special.”

I felt rage rise up and then I did what I’d learned to do.

I put it in a box.

I kept it from spilling onto my child.

“Okay,” I said calmly. “We’re going to handle this.”

I didn’t call my mom. I didn’t open the door to a conversation she could turn into a weapon.

I called Daisy’s school and asked them to update her file.

No contact with extended family without my written permission.

Period.

It wasn’t dramatic.

It was adult.

It was the kind of boundary you build with paperwork.

That same week I got another call. This one from a cousin I still trusted—the kind of relative who doesn’t love drama but also doesn’t lie.

“Just so you know,” she said carefully, “your mom’s been telling people she always supported you. She’s saying the family is very proud.”

I let out one short laugh—not because it was funny, but because the audacity was almost impressive.

“And Philip,” my cousin added, hesitating. “He’s been mentioning you in meetings, like you’re connected.”

Connected.

My brother Philip wasn’t reaching out because he missed me.

He was reaching out because my name was now useful.

A week later, the fourth attempt arrived in the most my-mother way possible.

A polite email—not to me, to the event organizer of a business awards night I was scheduled to attend.

The organizer forwarded it to my assistant with a simple question: Is this legitimate family?

My assistant brought it to me with that careful, professional face people wear when they’re trying not to pry.

The email was from my mom.

She wrote, “I am Erica’s mother. Our family will be attending to support her. Please ensure we are seated appropriately.”

Appropriately.

Like love comes with assigned seating.

I stared at the screen, feeling that old familiar tightness in my chest, and then I understood exactly what was happening.

My family wasn’t coming to celebrate me.

They were coming to be photographed near me.

They were coming to cash in the story they’d rewritten.

Proud parents.

Supportive siblings.

Loving grandparents.

A family that never disowned anyone.

The only problem was, I had receipts.

I opened a folder on my computer titled PROOF, because yes, I’m a single mom, and yes, I’m petty in a responsible way.

I pulled up the screenshot of my mother’s group chat message.

Then I forwarded it to the event organizer with one calm note:

Thank you for checking. This person disowned me in writing. They are not authorized VIP/Family section guests. Please notify security if they approach the stage or my daughter.

No rant.

No essay.

Just facts.

Because facts are harder to gaslight.

That night, after Daisy went to bed, I sat at my kitchen table and stared at the blank space where my mother’s love used to be.

I didn’t cry.

I didn’t spiral.

I didn’t even feel surprised.

I felt steady.

At the time, I thought the worst thing had already happened.

I didn’t know yet that the next time my family showed up, it would end with them wishing they’d never said my name.

The night of the event, Daisy stood in front of the mirror twisting her hair, trying to decide whether she looked fancy enough for a room full of people in blazers.

She was eleven now—still my kid, still stubborn, just tall enough to see over the lies.

“Do I look okay?” she asked.

“You look perfect,” I said, smoothing her collar.

We arrived early.

The venue was all high ceilings and flattering lights, the kind of place where people pretend they’ve never ugly-cried in a car. Cameras by the entrance. A step-and-repeat backdrop. Tiny glasses of expensive liquids that taste like regret.

Daisy squeezed my hand. “Why are there so many people?”

“Because grown-ups like to clap for each other,” I said. “It’s basically a pep rally, but with blazers.”

She giggled, and for a second my chest loosened.

Because no matter what happened, Daisy and I were together.

We always had been.

This was a public event. Anyone with a ticket could come in, which meant my family could show up.

But they weren’t getting anywhere near us this time.

So when Daisy and I sat near the front, my name printed in the program, I felt steady.

Then the air changed.

You know that feeling when a room shifts before you see why? Like your spine gets an alert.

I felt it.

Daisy felt it, too.

Her hand tightened around mine.

“Mom,” she whispered.

I turned my head just enough.

There they were.

My mom, my dad, Ivonne, Philip, and Mallerie filed into the back rows under the dimmer lights, the way you see people who arrived late and expected VIP anyway.

My mother was dressed like she’d planned a photo: pearls, cream, respectable from head to toe.

From the back of the room it didn’t look respectable.

It looked desperate.

She spotted me and lifted her chin like she was about to reclaim territory.

Then she stood up and started moving down the aisle.

Of course she did.

Daisy’s voice went thin. “Is she coming here?”

“She’s trying,” I murmured.

And that’s when my mom tried to walk toward the stage.

Not at a run. Not making a full scene yet. Just a steady march toward the front rows, the cameras, the family section she believed she deserved.

An event staff member stepped into her path with a polite smile and a spine made of steel.

“Ma’am,” she said gently, “your seats are in the back.”

My mom’s mouth tightened. “I’m her mother.”

The staff member didn’t blink. “Your seats are still in the back.”

My mom tried to step around her.

The staff member moved with her like a living boundary.

I didn’t move.

I didn’t rescue her pride.

She’d spent years burying mine.

My mom argued for one more beat—long enough for heads to turn—then finally backed down and walked stiffly back to her row.

Ivonne’s smile vanished.

Philip leaned in, whispering fast.

My dad stared forward like he didn’t want to be recorded having a conscience.

The program continued.

Speeches.

Awards.

Applause.

Then my name was called.

Daisy looked up at me like I was about to jump off a cliff.

“Go,” she whispered.

I walked to the stage, took the microphone, and looked out at the room.

I saw cameras.

I saw a live-stream screen off to the side.

I saw a sea of faces.

And in the back, I saw my family sitting where they belonged—far enough away that they couldn’t pretend we were close.

I took a breath.

I’d planned not to mention them. I wanted to win without speaking their names.

But then I remembered Daisy’s voice at our kitchen table.

What does lowly mean?

And I realized something.

If I stayed silent, the shame would stay ours.

So I made a choice.

“I’m a single mom,” I said. “And I built this without a safety net.”

A few people nodded.

The room got quieter.

“My daughter and I started in a small apartment with a kitchen table that doubled as a desk and a dinner table. There were nights I wanted to quit, but I couldn’t, because I had someone watching me learn what worthy looks like.”

I paused just long enough for the room to lean in.

“Three years ago, my mother wrote in our family chat: ‘All my children brought this family respect except Erica. She chose to be a lowly single mom. I no longer see her as my daughter.’”

The room went still in that stunned public way.

Not gossip-still.

Truth-still.

I kept my tone calm. Not angry. Not theatrical. Just factual—like reading something that should never have been written.

“I’m not sharing that for sympathy,” I continued. “I’m sharing it because it’s part of what I overcame, and because if anyone has ever tried to make you feel small for surviving—hear me. You can build anyway.”

I didn’t look at the back rows.

I didn’t need to.

I could feel them shrinking from across the room.

Then I pivoted, because I wasn’t giving them my whole speech.

I thanked my team.

I thanked the people who supported me.

And I thanked Daisy, because she was the only family I needed to name.

Applause broke out.

Real applause.

When I stepped off stage, Daisy launched into me, whispering, “Mom, you were so strong.”

I held her close and whispered back, “So were you.”

We headed toward the lobby.

That’s when Philip intercepted us, moving fast like he was trying to catch the story before it ran away.

“What was that?” he hissed.

I didn’t stop walking. “The truth.”

He blocked my path. “You didn’t have to say that.”

I finally looked at him. “You didn’t have to agree with it.”

His face tightened.

My mom appeared behind him, eyes glossy with rage.

“How could you do that to me?” she demanded.

I didn’t raise my voice. “You wrote it.”

“That was private,” she snapped.

I let out a short, humorless laugh. “You posted it to the family and everyone reacted to it. That’s not private. That’s a declaration.”

Ivonne jumped in, whispering urgently, “People will think—”

“I don’t care what people think,” I said, steady. “I care what my child learns.”

My dad finally spoke, quiet and weak. “Erica—”

I looked at him. “You gave it a thumbs up.”

He flinched like he’d forgotten receipts existed.

Daisy squeezed my hand.

I turned away from them without another word and walked out with my daughter.

And for the first time, the story wasn’t theirs to spin.

A year later, life didn’t magically turn perfect, but it did turn solid.

The company grew.

We landed a major partnership big enough to make the local news—one of those look at her now segments people watch while folding laundry.

Daisy sat on the couch beside me, staring at the TV like it was a portal.

When the anchor said my name, Daisy smiled and said simply, “That’s my mom.”

That sentence was worth more than any number on a screen.

Then the doorbell rang one Saturday afternoon.

Three quick chimes.

Urgent.

I opened the door and there they were.

My mom in the front.

My dad behind her.

Philip and Ivonne off to the side.

Mallerie lingering like she’d been dragged there against her will.

My mom’s eyes flicked over the house and the quiet and the safety, and you could see calculation behind her expression.

Then she put on her face—the reasonable-woman mask.

“Erica,” she said softly. “We need help.”

Of course.

Not I’m sorry.

Not I was wrong.

Help.

Philip stepped forward, already angry like it was my fault.

“After that night, things got complicated,” he said.

I tilted my head. “Interesting choice of word.”

His jaw clenched. “Clients backed out. Partners got cold. People sent that clip around. They said I misrepresented connections.”

Connections.

Meaning me.

My mom’s voice trembled. “We might lose the house.”

My dad cleared his throat. “We’re family.”

Behind me, Daisy appeared in the hallway, silent and watching.

I looked at my mom. “You wrote that you no longer saw me as your daughter.”

My mom’s eyes flashed. “I was upset.”

“You were clear,” I said.

Daisy took one small step forward and said, quiet but steady, “You called my mom lowly.”

My mom flinched, because it hits different when a child says it.

I didn’t gloat.

I didn’t preach.

I didn’t perform forgiveness.

I just said the truth.

“You don’t get to disown me and then show up when you need money,” I said. “That’s not family. That’s an emergency fund with a face.”

Philip’s voice sharpened. “So you’re just going to let us lose everything.”

I held his gaze. “You lost me first.”

Silence.

Then I stepped back and closed the door.

Not slammed.

Not dramatic.

Just closed.

Daisy looked up at me. “We’re not lowly,” she said.

I smiled.

“No, sweetheart,” I told her. “We’re not.”

And that was the last time I saw them.