Toward six blue boxes filled with red geraniums.
At five that afternoon, Susan walked into the kitchen.
She stopped in front of the chore board.
Her name was beside Saturday dinner.
For a second, I prepared for another fight.
Instead, she turned toward Mom.
“What were you planning to make tonight?”
Mom started to stand.
I gave her a look.
She sat back down.
“Chicken. Roasted potatoes. Green beans. The chicken is already marinated.”
Susan sighed.
“Where are the potatoes?”
Dinner wasn’t amazing.
Susan overcooked the chicken.
The potatoes were still firm in the middle.
The green beans needed salt.
She asked where everything was.
The baking sheet.
Oil.
Pepper.
Oven mitts.
But halfway through cooking, something changed.
She stopped asking Mom.
She started opening cabinets herself.
Looking.
Learning.
At one point, she found the spatula hanging beside the refrigerator.
The same spatula she couldn’t find at breakfast.
She held it up.
“Huh.”
At dinner, everyone ate Susan’s dry chicken and crunchy potatoes.
Daniel smiled.
“This is good, Mom.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Richard shrugged.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s edible.”
Mom took a bite.
Chewed carefully.
Then smiled.
“It’s very good, Susan. Thank you.”
Susan looked at her.
“You’re welcome, Maggie.”
After dinner, Mom automatically reached for the plates.
Thirty years of habit.
But Susan got there first.
“Leave those. I’ll do it.”
Mom smiled.
Then caught herself.
“Don’t tell me to sit down either.”
Susan froze.
I almost laughed.
She corrected herself.
“Right. Sorry.”
Then she asked,
“Maggie, would you like to help me with the dishes?”
Mom thought.
Really thought.
Then said,
“No.”
Susan nodded.
“Okay.”
And carried the plates into the kitchen herself.
That night, I found Mom outside beside the flowers.
Moonlight covered the lake.
I sat next to her.
“I’m sorry for what I said this morning.”
