Or making a scene.
Or ruining the next thirty Christmases.
Sometimes, I simply needed to create enough room for Mom to finally say no.
Then step back.
And let her say it herself.
We returned to the lake last weekend.
First weekend of a new summer.
The geraniums were already there.
Six blue boxes.
Bright red flowers.
The dry-erase board stood on the kitchen table.
At the top, in Mom’s handwriting, it said:
WEEKEND JOBS.
Five names underneath.
Breakfast.
Lunch.
Dinner.
Groceries.
Cleanup.
Rotating assignments.
And at the bottom, beside her own name, Mom had written:
Maggie: Sunday breakfast. And enjoy my house.
She underlined my twice.
The geraniums stayed exactly where she planted them.
All summer.
And every morning, when Susan carried her coffee outside, she walked right past the large striped lounger.
She chose the plastic chair at the end of the deck.
The one where she could see the whole lake.
Past the flowers.
Past the little red party Mom had planted there.
