“Then explain it.”
Susan was quiet.
Then she pulled out one of the plastic chairs and sat across from Mom.
“When my mother got older, my siblings and I started helping her.”
She paused.
“At least, that’s what we called it.”
Her voice had changed.
“We carried everything for her. Told her not to cook. Told her not to clean. Every holiday, if she stood up, someone immediately said, ‘Mom, sit down. We’ve got it.’”
Susan stared at her hands.
“We thought we were taking care of her.”
Nobody spoke.
“Then one Thanksgiving, the last one before she died, I brought her coffee in the living room.”
Susan swallowed.
“She looked at me and said, ‘Susie, all of you have made me feel useless.’”
Mom lowered the book.
Susan’s eyes were wet now.
“She said we had decided she was old before she was. Every time we told her to sit down, she heard that nobody needed her anymore.”
Susan’s voice broke slightly.
“That she didn’t have any purpose anymore.”
Her mother died four months later.
“And I never got to apologize.”
The deck was silent.
“So when Maggie told me this house was becoming harder but also kept saying how much she loved having everyone here, I thought I understood.”
