He shrugged.
“I do usually shop.”
“That isn’t the point, Richard.”
But it was exactly the point.
Susan loved describing herself as a natural hostess.
And technically, she did host.
She selected menus.
Flowers.
Music.
Seating arrangements.
She directed everything beautifully.
Other people performed the work.
Richard shopped.
Daniel cooked.
Richard’s sister washed dishes.
Susan stood in the middle holding a wineglass and receiving compliments.
For a second, I saw that realization move through the kitchen.
Then Mom tried to rescue everyone.
“I can just make some eggs.”
She stood.
“No.”
I said it firmly.
Maybe too firmly.
Mom sat back down.
Susan gave me a look I knew she would remember for years.
I met it.
Then she opened the refrigerator.
“Fine.”
She stared inside.
“Where are the eggs?”
By nine, breakfast had happened.
Nobody starved.
The cabin survived.
Susan made scrambled eggs and toast.
The eggs were dry.
The toast was burned around the edges.
She couldn’t find the butter.
Or the frying pan.
Or the spatula.
Even though she had watched Mom use all of them every weekend for two months.
Three times, Mom tried to stand.
Three times, I said,
“Sit down.”
And each time, she sat.
