I freeze with the phone to my ear.
“Pick me up?”
“Well, yeah. For dinner at Willow Creek. I can stop by if you want, but I have classes until six. I’m afraid I’ll be late for the start.”
I’m gripping the phone tighter.
“Reed, honey… I think you’re confused. Wesley told me dinner was cancelled. Cora is sick.”
Reed is silent now for a long time. Too long.
“Reed, I’m calling. Are you there?”
“Grandma, I… I don’t understand. Dad called me an hour ago asking if I could be at the restaurant by seven. Nobody canceled anything.”
I’m slowly sinking into the couch.
So that’s how it is.
I was just decided not to be invited.
My own son lied to me so I wouldn’t come to the family reunion.
“Grandma, are you okay?” Reed’s voice sounds concerned.
“Yes, honey. I’m fine.” I try to keep my voice normal. “I must have misunderstood something. You know, at my age, you get confused sometimes. I’m sure it’s some kind of misunderstanding.”
“Do you want me to call my dad and find out?”
“No,” I answer hastily. “There’s no need. I’ll talk to him myself. Don’t worry.”
After the conversation, I sit in silence for a long time, looking at the picture of us all together—me, George, the kids—happy, smiling.
When did it all go wrong? When did I become a burden to them? Better left at home than taken to a family party.
Resentment and bitterness rise up inside, but I force myself to breathe deeply.
Now is not the time for tears.
Now is the time to think.
If my kids don’t want me at the family reunion, then I’ve become a stranger to them, and I need to figure out why.
I walk over to the closet where I keep old letters and documents.
Among them are George’s will, the insurance policy, the deeds to the house.
Wesley has hinted several times that I should sign the house over to him.
For your own safety, Mom.
Thelma suggested I sell it and move into a nursing home.
They’ll take better care of you than we can.
I always refused, sensing that there was something else behind those suggestions.
Now, I think I’m beginning to realize what it is.
In the evening, the phone rings.
This time, it’s Ka—my sister-in-law. Her voice sounds cheerful and energetic for someone with a high fever and bed rest.
“Edith, honey, how are you? Wesley said he called you about Friday.”
“Yes,” I say in a steady voice. “He said you were sick and dinner was cancelled.”
“That’s right,” Kora confirms too hastily. “It’s a terrible virus. Just knocked me off my feet. The doctor prescribed bed rest for at least a week.”
“I hope you feel better soon,” I say. “Say hello to the others.”
“The others?” I can hear the tension in her voice. “Yeah… Thelma. Reed. They’re upset about the canceled holiday, aren’t they?”
“Oh, yes. Of course. They’re all very upset. But it can’t be helped. Health is more important.”
“Well, Edith, I have to take my medication. Feel better.”
She hangs up.
I look out of the window at the darkening sky.
Well, now I have confirmation.
They’re planning dinner without me.
They haven’t even bothered to come up with a plausible lie.
I pull out of my closet the dark blue dress I haven’t worn since George’s funeral. I try it on in front of the mirror.
It still fits well, even though I’ve lost weight over the years.
If my children think they can just cut me out of their lives, they’re sorely mistaken.
Edith Thornberry hasn’t said her last word yet.
And tomorrow night promises to be interesting. Very interesting.
I’ve been up all night.
Not because of the pain in my joints, although that was coming on.
Not because of the insomnia that often afflicts people my age.
I was awake because the thoughts of the day ahead kept me awake.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the faces of my children gathered around the holiday table without me—laughing, raising their glasses, telling each other how lucky they were to be rid of their old mother for the evening.
Friday morning was overcast. Heavy clouds hung over Blue Springs as if reflecting my mood.
I made tea, but it went cold, untouched.
I didn’t feel like eating.
Something inside me seemed to be frozen, waiting for a decision I hadn’t made yet.
What would I do tonight?
Would I stay home like my children had planned, or…?
My gaze fell on George’s picture on the mantelpiece. He was looking at me with a slight smile, tilting his head slightly to the side—a gesture that always meant he had something important to say.
“What would you do, George?” I mentally asked him, and I could almost hear the answer.
Don’t let them trample on your dignity, Edith. You deserve better than that.
I went to the window. Outside, Mrs. Fletcher was walking her dachshund. When she saw me, she waved.
I waved back, thinking about how few people were left in my life who were actually happy to see me.
The phone rang, snapping me out of my musings.
It was Wesley.
“Mom, good morning.” His voice sounded suspiciously cheerful. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” I answered. “How’s Kora? Is she better?”
There was a second pause. I could almost see him frantically recalling last night’s lie.
“No. She’s the same. She’s lying down with a fever. The doctor said it might be a while.”
“That’s a shame,” I say with fake sympathy. “I was thinking of baking her a chicken pot pie and bringing it over. Nothing like a home-cooked meal for a cold.”
“No, no, you don’t have to,” Wesley answered hastily. “We have everything, really. I’m just calling to see if you need anything. Maybe you’re out of medication.”
Oh, that’s it. Checking to see if I’m going out tonight—making sure I stay home while they celebrate without me.
“Thanks, son. I’ve got everything,” I reply. “I’m going to spend the evening reading. I’ve been wanting to reread Agatha Christie for ages.”
“That’s a great idea,” Wesley says with obvious relief. “Okay, Mom. I have to go to work. If you need anything, call me.”
I hung up the phone and looked at my watch. Ten in the morning.
There was still plenty of time before dinner tonight.
Time to think about how things had gotten to this point.
When had things changed? When did my children stop considering me? When did I go from being a mother to being a burden?
Maybe it started after George died.
Wesley and Thelma used to come every day, help with the funeral, the paperwork.
But then their visits became less and less frequent. First once a week, then once a month.
Thelma was always in a hurry, always looking at her watch.
Wesley came more often, but his visits usually coincided with requests for money.
Mom, it’s Kora’s birthday. I want to get her a necklace, but we’re tight on money this month.
Mom, we have a leaky roof. We need repairs right away, but all the money went to pay for Reed’s college.
Mom, I’ve invested in a promising project, but we need to reborrow for now.
I always gave—not because I believed his stories. They’d gotten less and less believable over the years, but because I wanted to feel that they needed me, at least that way. That they’d come to me, even if only for money.
I pulled an old notebook out of the closet where I’d written down all of Wesley’s loans.
Over fifteen years, it had accumulated a sizable sum—money he’ll never pay back, and we both know it.
It’s different with Thelma. She doesn’t ask for money directly, but every time I go to her flower store, she insists I buy the most expensive bouquet.
Mom, you don’t want people to think I can’t provide my mother with decent flowers, do you?
