“Go sit on the deck.”
“And do what?”
“Whatever you want.”
She looked completely lost.
“I don’t know what I want.”
“Then go figure it out.”
Twenty minutes later, she came downstairs wearing gardening jeans and an old T-shirt.
She carried a mystery novel I had given her for Christmas.
She had never opened it.
Mom went outside.
Sat in a plastic chair beside the flower boxes.
Opened the book.
And spent about forty-five minutes reading the same page.
Later that afternoon, I went upstairs to grab a sweater.
As I passed the guest room, I heard Susan talking to Richard.
“This is exactly what I was trying to prevent.”
I stopped.
Richard said something too quietly to hear.
Then Susan said,
“She told me herself, Richard. She said it’s getting harder. Cleaning. Shopping. Driving. Everything. And now everyone is treating her like she can’t handle her own house.”
I knocked.
The room went silent.
Susan opened the door.
“What are you talking about?”
She stared at me.
“Excuse me?”
“You said my mother told you this place was becoming too difficult. What did she tell you?”
Susan looked at Richard.
Then back at me.
“She didn’t tell you?”
