“Please,” she said quietly. “Let me have this. Even if it turns out badly, let me have the part where I still get to hope.”
I had no response.
So I dried another plate.
Later, Chloe and I sat side by side on the porch steps.
“Grandma knows something’s going on,” she said. “She’s just afraid.”
“Chloe. Whatever you’re thinking, don’t.”
“I’m not thinking anything.”
“You’re always thinking something. Your face has a thinking setting, and it’s currently on.”
She gave a faint smile.
“Richard has another woman. Doesn’t he?”
“We don’t know that.”
“Or another family. A whole secret family in a house with a plumber that only works at night.”
“Chloe.”
“What? I’m just saying what everyone is thinking. Grandma is thinking so, too. She just won’t say it because if she does, it might be true.”
I put an arm around her shoulders.
“Her birthday is next Sunday,” I said. “I’m asking you, as your mother and as a coward, to please just let us get through dessert. We’ll deal with Richard afterwards.”
Chloe was silent for long enough that I thought she might agree.
Then she said calmly, “I’m tired of watching Grandma be lied to.”
“Chloe.”
“I love her too, Mom. That’s all I’m saying.”
She stood, kissed the top of my head like I was the child, and went inside.
I stayed on the porch, watching the street where Richard’s taillights vanished every Sunday.
The following week was Mom’s 72nd birthday.
She fixed her hair in the hallway mirror for the third time.
“You look gorgeous,” I told her.
“I look like a woman who’s trying too hard.”
From the couch, Chloe called, “Grandma, you look like a woman who’s trying just enough. There’s a difference.”
The doorbell rang at six.
Richard stood there holding a dozen roses, a wrapped gift, and the same leather tote tucked beneath his arm.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart!”
Mom’s entire face lit up.
It was hard to stay suspicious when she looked at him like that.
Dinner went wonderfully.
