Then one Saturday, I forgot my phone at Mom’s house.
I went back an hour later through the side door and heard voices from the kitchen.
“You tell me to call my mother every week,” Raven said.
“I know.”
“Then call your sister.”
I froze.
She meant Aunt Elaine.
Mom and Elaine hadn’t spoken in 11 years.
By then, I knew Mom had been pushing Raven to reconnect with her mother after an argument about Raven leaving college to become a tattoo artist.
When my grandmother became ill, Mom handled most of her care and resented that Elaine, who lived farther away, wasn’t there more.
During one awful argument, Elaine told her, “You don’t help people because you’re generous. You help them so they owe you.”
Mom told her to leave.
Their mother died soon after, and neither sister called again.
Now, standing outside the kitchen, I heard Raven say, “You ask me every Saturday if I’ve called my mom.”
“I know,” Mom said.
“Then why haven’t you called your sister?”
Silence followed.
“That’s different.”
“How?”
Mom sighed. “It just is.”
Raven didn’t let her escape that easily.
“Have you ever tried to fix it?”
“Once.”
“What did you do?”
“I picked up the phone.”
“And called Elaine?”
“No.”
Raven paused. “So you just picked up a phone.”
“And I put it down again.”
“That’s not exactly taking your own advice.”
Mom gave a short laugh.
“No. It isn’t.”
Raven’s voice softened.
“Then why keep telling me to call my mother?”
“Because you can be right, or you can have family, Raven. Sometimes you don’t get both.”
“That’s rich.”
“I know.”
My hand was already on the kitchen door.
I could’ve walked in.
I could’ve said Elaine’s name and forced the conversation into the open.
Instead, I backed away.
That night, I typed:
“I saw Mom today. I think she misses you.”
I stared at the message until the screen dimmed.
Then I deleted it.
Two months later, Mom had a stroke.
Tom met me outside her hospital room after the doctor left.
“Maeve?”
He pulled me against him, and for one stupid second, I reached for my phone.
“I need to call Mom.”
Then I remembered.
I stepped back and opened my contacts.
“I have to call Elaine.”
Tom squeezed my hand.
Elaine answered on the fifth ring.
“Maeve?”
“Mom died this morning.”
Silence.
Then, “Oh, God.”
“The funeral’s Friday.”
“I don’t think I can come.”
Normally, I would’ve said I understood just to end the discomfort.
Instead, I gripped the phone.
“I want you there.”
“I can’t promise that.”
“Then don’t promise. Just think about it.”
She didn’t come.
