All six.

By the end, she was breathing hard and there was dirt on her white cover-up.

Mom stood in the doorway watching with one hand over her mouth.

Susan looked at the big lounger.

The geraniums now blocked part of its view.

She said nothing.

Instead, she grabbed a plastic chair from the other side of the deck.

Moved it to a spot where she could see past the flowers.

Sat down for one quiet minute.

Looked at the lake.

Then walked to the car.

Mom noticed.

So did I.

I had set my alarm for five because I thought I needed to teach my mother-in-law a lesson.

And maybe I did.

But she wasn’t the only person who changed that weekend.

Mom stopped treating every visit like an audition.

The following Saturday, Susan cooked breakfast.

Her scrambled eggs were less dry.

She proudly told us she had watched a video.

The weekend after that, Mom and Susan cooked dinner together.

Mom taught her how to make pot roast.

They argued about garlic.

“More.”

“That’s already a lot.”

“More, Susan.”

Susan added more.

It was excellent.

Susan started carrying her own plate.

Every meal.

Without reminders.

She began asking instead of assuming.

“Maggie, would it be okay if I use the kayak?”

“Do you mind if I finish the coffee?”

She began doing enough work to understand how much invisible labor Mom had been doing all summer.

At the end of August, when we closed the cabin for the season, Susan got down on her knees and scrubbed the bathroom floor.

Nobody told her to.

When she finished, she stood up and rubbed her knees.

“Good Lord. You do this every week?”

“Every week.”

Susan stared at Mom.

“You’re either a saint or completely crazy.”

“Probably both.”

They laughed.

And I learned something too.

Defending my mother didn’t mean I needed to fight every battle for her.

It didn’t require yelling at Susan.

Or making a scene.

Or ruining the next thirty Christmases.

Sometimes, I simply needed to create enough room for Mom to finally say no.

Then step back.

And let her say it herself.

We returned to the lake last weekend.

First weekend of a new summer.

The geraniums were already there.

Six blue boxes.

Bright red flowers.

The dry-erase board stood on the kitchen table.

At the top, in Mom’s handwriting, it said:

WEEKEND JOBS.

Five names underneath.

Breakfast.

Lunch.

Dinner.

Groceries.

Cleanup.

Rotating assignments.

And at the bottom, beside her own name, Mom had written:

Maggie: Sunday breakfast. And enjoy my house.

She underlined my twice.

The geraniums stayed exactly where she planted them.

All summer.

And every morning, when Susan carried her coffee outside, she walked right past the large striped lounger.

She chose the plastic chair at the end of the deck.

The one where she could see the whole lake.

Past the flowers.

Past the little red party Mom had planted there.