The salt.
The pan.
The food.
It was territory.
Virginia was struggling with the fact that her son had built a life that no longer revolved around her.
After Brenda and Frank left, Justin brought some glasses into the kitchen.
He hesitated.
“Taking her plate away might have been a little intense.”
I looked at him.
“What should I have done instead?”
“I don’t know.”
“I ignored her for a week.”
He looked down.
“I didn’t scream. I didn’t insult her. I removed food she claimed was disgusting.”
“I know.”
“And please don’t tell me anymore that ‘she’s just like that.’”
Justin looked up.
“Why?”
“Because when you say that, what you’re actually asking is for me to tolerate her behavior so you don’t have to deal with it.”
That landed.
He went quiet.
“I love you,” I said. “I don’t want your mother to become something we resent each other over.”
“Neither do I.”
“Then don’t make me defend myself alone.”
Justin rubbed his face.
Then nodded.
“You’re right.”
He looked genuinely ashamed.
“I should have spoken up days ago.”
Virginia didn’t come out for dinner that night.
The next morning, I expected icy silence.
Instead, she entered the kitchen wearing her robe and quietly sat down.
“Good morning.”
“Morning.”
I poured her coffee.
She accepted it.
No criticism.
She ate breakfast.
No comments about salt.
No inspection of the sink.
It was the most peaceful morning we had shared since she arrived.
Over the next two weeks, something changed.
Virginia focused on her medical appointments.
She stopped rearranging the kitchen.
