My mother pushed her teacup toward the middle of the table, her fingernail tapping the rim until the porcelain rang against the glass. A thin gray film had formed over the surface of the Earl Grey.
“It is completely cold,” Diane said, her voice carrying to the booth behind us. “Is anyone going to do something about this?”
I tapped my gold wedding band against my thumbnail, a quick double beat. “I can ask the server to bring a fresh pot.”
“Don’t bother,” Diane said, letting out a heavy sigh that ruffled the edge of her paper menu. “They are far too busy for us.”
Ryan checked his sports watch, the screen lighting up green against his thick wrist. “We have about forty minutes before the traffic on Interstate seventy-seven gets heavy, so let us keep the ball moving.”
Melissa sat beside him, her fingers busy folding her cloth napkin into a small, tight square. She did not look up from the polished wood of the table.
“I will find him,” I said, sliding my chair back.
“Sit down, Emily,” my mother said. “The mood is already ruined.”
George placed his hand on my wrist, his thumb resting gently against my skin. He did not say anything, but the pressure of his grip was steady and warm.
The Garden Cafe was crowded for Mother’s Day, filled with the clink of silverware and the smell of toasted pecans. Outside the large glass windows, the Charlotte humidity was already rising off the asphalt parking lot.
“They should have more staff on a holiday,” Melissa whispered, her voice barely audible over the clatter of plates.
“It is a staffing optimization issue,” Ryan said, leaning back. “You have to look at the labor cost margins.”
“I just want a hot cup of tea,” Diane said, adjusting her beige cardigan around her shoulders. “Is that too much to ask on today of all days?”
The table went quiet as the server passed by, carrying a tray of mimosa glasses. He did not look at our table.
Twenty minutes later, our server returned with a black plastic presenter and set it down exactly between Ryan and George. Nobody touched it for three minutes.
Ryan began talking about his regional sales targets, using terms like client conversion and vertical alignment while his eyes darted to the black folder. He adjusted his watch strap twice.
“The bank sent another notice about the Oak Street house,” Diane said, interrupting him.
“We can discuss that later, Mom,” Ryan said, shifting his weight in the booth. “Emily handles the logistics.”
I reached for my red leather purse on the floor beside my chair. The leather was scuffed near the brass buckle, but the strap was strong.
Inside, my personal checkbook sat in its plastic sleeve, next to a printed ledger showing four years of payments. Every month, exactly one thousand four hundred sixty dollars went from my savings account to her lender.
I pulled out my credit card and dropped it onto the black folder.
Diane looked away, her eyes fixing on the large ferns hanging from the cafe ceiling. She did not say thank you, nor did she acknowledge the plastic card.
“We need to make sure the payment cleared,” Ryan said, leaning forward. “The grace period ends on the fifteenth.”
“It cleared,” I said.
“Are you sure?” Diane asked. “Because the last time I checked my mail, there was a letter with red writing on the front.”
“I paid it on the first of the month, Mother,” I said.
“Well, they keep sending those letters,” Diane said, her fingers catching on a loose thread near the cuff of her cardigan. “It makes me feel like I am living on borrowed time.”
George shifted in his seat, his shoulder brushing mine. “Emily has never missed a payment.”
“I am not talking to you, George,” Diane said.
“He is just stating a fact, Mom,” Ryan said, though he kept his eyes on his sports watch. “But we do need to make sure the pipeline remains secure.”
The server took the card and returned ten minutes later, placing a slice of untouched New York cheesecake in the center of our table with five clean forks. He slipped the receipt under the edge of my purse.
Melissa folded her napkin into an even smaller square, the fabric now thick and solid as a block of wood. “The garden looks nice this year, Diane.”
“It is dying,” Diane said, staring across the plate at me. “The oak trees shade everything now, and nobody comes to help me prune them.”
“I was there last weekend,” George said.
“You did the lawn, George, not the trees,” Diane said. “And you left the clippings by the garage.”
“I left them where the city collects them,” George said.
Diane ignored him, her focus staying on me. “You look tired, Emily. You always look tired these days.”
“I am managing three offices now,” I said.
“Your brother has five hundred clients,” Diane said, her voice sharp. “And he still finds time to visit his mother without making it feel like an ordeal.”
