Her sister.
Her church friends.
Her book club.
And I would spend the next thirty Christmases sitting across from a woman convinced I hated her.
So I didn’t say anything that Saturday.
Not at breakfast.
Not at lunch.
Not during dinner.
I watched Mom cook for Susan.
Serve Susan.
Clean up after Susan.
Then I watched my exhausted mother go to bed at ten.
And I went upstairs and set my alarm for five.
Daniel watched me.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting up early.”
“Why?”
“I’m fixing something.”
He sat up.
“This is about the flowers?”
“It’s about the whole summer. The flowers were just the final straw.”
He watched me.
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know yet. But I’m done watching my mother exhaust herself every weekend while your mom spends the whole time in that lounger.”
I looked at him.
“Are you going to be angry with me?”
Daniel thought.
Then shook his head.
“No.”
He lay back down.
“Honestly, I should’ve done something myself weeks ago.”
At 5:07 the next morning, I found the answer.
An old dry-erase board.
About two feet by three feet.
Mom used it when I was a child.
Grocery lists.
Weather.
Little messages.
Good luck on your swim test.
Dad caught a big one.
It had been blank for years.
I carried it to the kitchen table.
Propped it against the fruit bowl.
Found a black marker.
And across the top, I wrote:
WEEKEND JOBS
Then I divided the work.
Daniel: breakfast cleanup.
Richard: grocery run.
Me: lunch.
Susan: breakfast.
Then I created a dinner rotation.
Saturday.
Sunday.
Different people responsible each night.
Susan got Saturday.
Finally, at the bottom beside Mom’s name, I wrote:
Mom: enjoy your house.
