Then around ten every night, she went to bed exhausted.
And at six the next morning, she started again.
Susan’s weekends looked slightly different.
She arrived Friday evening.
Walked through the cabin saying,
“Oh, this is so cute.”
Every single weekend.
As though she were seeing it for the first time.
Then she went straight outside.
There was one large lounger with a striped cushion in the center of the deck.
Best view of the lake.
Susan claimed it almost immediately.
Sunglasses.
Iced tea.
Phone.
And that was basically her weekend.
All summer, she never once offered to help.
Not once.
Eight weekends.
She never carried a plate to the sink.
Never chopped an onion.
Never wiped a countertop.
Never folded a towel.
She wouldn’t even bring her coffee mug back inside.
Every morning, it sat on the side table next to her chair.
By noon, it would leave a ring on the wood.
Mom would come out, pick it up, wipe the table, and carry the cup inside.
At first, Susan would say,
“Thanks, Maggie.”
Without looking up from her phone.
By July, she stopped saying that too.
That bothered me more than almost anything.
Mom could spend two hours preparing a meal, place the plate directly in front of Susan, and Susan would simply begin eating.
