She stopped in front of the chore board.
Her name was beside Saturday dinner.
For a second, I prepared for another fight.
Instead, she turned toward Mom.
“What were you planning to make tonight?”
Mom started to stand.
I gave her a look.
She sat back down.
“Chicken. Roasted potatoes. Green beans. The chicken is already marinated.”
Susan sighed.
“Where are the potatoes?”
Dinner wasn’t amazing.
Susan overcooked the chicken.
The potatoes were still firm in the middle.
The green beans needed salt.
She asked where everything was.
The baking sheet.
Oil.
Pepper.
Oven mitts.
But halfway through cooking, something changed.
She stopped asking Mom.
She started opening cabinets herself.
Looking.
Learning.
At one point, she found the spatula hanging beside the refrigerator.
The same spatula she couldn’t find at breakfast.
She held it up.
“Huh.”
At dinner, everyone ate Susan’s dry chicken and crunchy potatoes.
Daniel smiled.
“This is good, Mom.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Richard shrugged.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s edible.”
Mom took a bite.
Chewed carefully.
Then smiled.
“It’s very good, Susan. Thank you.”
Susan looked at her.
“You’re welcome, Maggie.”
After dinner, Mom automatically reached for the plates.
Thirty years of habit.
