“Grace, I’m changing.”
Another afternoon, she opened Harold’s desk drawers looking for stamps.
I found her holding a stack of old receipts.
“The stamps aren’t in there,” I said.
“Well, where does he keep them?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, where does he keep them?”
She gave me a look suggesting my marriage might not survive such ignorance.
Then came the birth control.
I’d left it beside my lamp.
Grace picked it up.
Actually picked it up.
“Oh, don’t look so horrified,” she said. “I’ve known my son longer than you have.”
Then came the birth control.
I took it from her.
“That doesn’t make this yours.”
Harold spoke to her that evening.
“Mom, our bedroom is private.”
Grace rolled her eyes.
“Private from strangers, maybe. I’m your mother.”
“Mom, our bedroom is private.”
He told her again the next morning after she walked in looking for a sweater Harold hadn’t owned since college.
“Knock before you come in, Mom.”
“I gave birth to you.”
“Thirty-eight years ago. You can knock now.”
“I gave birth to you.”
I thought that might finally settle it.
Instead, two days later, she removed the entire door.
