She hated every second of it.
After breakfast, Susan stood and walked toward the deck.
Her dirty plate remained on the table.
Pure habit.
Daniel looked at the plate.
Then at her.
“Mom.”
Susan stopped.
She followed his eyes.
Then returned.
Picked up the plate.
Carried it to the sink.
Set it down harder than necessary.
And walked outside.
I thought I would feel victorious.
I didn’t.
Mostly, I felt exhausted.
And Mom looked miserable.
She sat at the table staring at the dishes as though someone had tied her hands together.
By lunch, I realized Susan wasn’t the only person struggling.
Mom followed me around the kitchen while I cooked.
“You cut those tomatoes too thick.”
“They’ll survive.”
“I can make the dressing.”
“I’ve got it.”
“The good salad bowl is underneath. Not that one. That one is for chips.”
“Mom.”
“You should spin the lettuce first or it’ll—”
“Mom.”
She stopped.
And then she asked something I’ve never forgotten.
“What am I supposed to do?”
Not,
Can I help?
Not,
Do you need anything?
What am I supposed to do?
Like she genuinely didn’t know who she was if nobody needed something from her.
