Beside the trash cans.
Susan never stood up.
Never offered to help.
Never said,
“Oh, forget it. Leave them.”
She just watched.
When Mom finished moving the last box, Susan put her sunglasses back on.
“That’s much better. Thanks, Maggie.”
It was the first thank-you I had heard from her in weeks.
I knew my mother.
She was gentle.
Too gentle sometimes.
She was the kind of woman who apologized to furniture when she bumped into it.
She would tolerate almost anything to avoid conflict.
Especially if she thought conflict might affect me.
She would have moved those flower boxes a hundred times.
She would have driven into town for expensive mayonnaise a hundred times.
She would have picked up Susan’s coffee cup every morning forever.
And she would never complain.
Because she didn’t want trouble between me and my new family.
That was exactly why I couldn’t keep ignoring it.
But I also knew shouting at Susan would solve nothing.
If I confronted her publicly, she would go home and tell everyone that Daniel’s new wife had attacked her out of nowhere.
Her sister.
Her church friends.
Her book club.
And I would spend the next thirty Christmases sitting across from a woman convinced I hated her.
