She stopped.
Picked up the marker.
And wrote:
Susan — Saturday breakfast.
Then she left.
On the way to the car, she passed the big lounger.
She stopped.
Looked at it.
Then looked at the six flower boxes hidden near the trash cans.
She walked over.
Picked up one box with both hands.
Carried it across the deck.
Placed it back on the railing.
Exactly where Mom had originally put it.
Then she returned for another.
And another.
All six.
By the end, she was breathing hard and there was dirt on her white cover-up.
Mom stood in the doorway watching with one hand over her mouth.
Susan looked at the big lounger.
The geraniums now blocked part of its view.
She said nothing.
Instead, she grabbed a plastic chair from the other side of the deck.
Moved it to a spot where she could see past the flowers.
Sat down for one quiet minute.
Looked at the lake.
Then walked to the car.
Mom noticed.
So did I.
I had set my alarm for five because I thought I needed to teach my mother-in-law a lesson.
And maybe I did.
But she wasn’t the only person who changed that weekend.
