PART 2
“They’re family now.”
I looked at her.
“You married Daniel,” she continued. “So in a way, we’re all family now. I want them to feel welcome.”
I didn’t know what to say.
So I got on the floor and helped her scrub.
That summer, the weather stayed beautiful.
Warm.
Clear.
Sunny almost every weekend.
So we came to the cabin constantly.
Me and Daniel.
Susan and Richard.
Mom.
And every weekend slowly became the same.
Mom got up at six every morning.
Before everyone else.
I would hear her downstairs.
Coffee brewing.
Pan on the stove.
Old country music playing softly from the radio.
She cooked breakfast for everyone.
Bacon.
Eggs.
Pancakes.
French toast.
Or her blueberry muffins from scratch.
Then she cleaned everything.
Every pan.
Every fork.
Every plate.
Then she stripped beds.
Washed towels.
Hung them outside.
Then she drove nearly forty minutes round-trip to the larger grocery store because Susan didn’t like the mayonnaise sold at the little store near the lake.
Susan only ate avocado-oil mayonnaise.
The expensive kind.
Eleven dollars a jar.
Mom learned that the first weekend when Susan took one bite of chicken salad and said,
“Oh. Is this regular mayonnaise?”
Mom drove into town the next morning.
She bought three jars.
Then she made lunch.
Cleaned lunch.
Made dinner.
Cleaned dinner.
Salmon.
Pot roast.
Chicken piccata.
Homemade pasta.
And every Saturday night, peach cobbler.
Why?
Because Richard mentioned once that he liked peach cobbler.
Mom remembered.
Of course she did.
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.
No thank you.
No acknowledgment.
As though dinner had appeared by itself.
I brought it up to Daniel once.
We were lying in bed at the cabin with the lights off.
“Your mom never helps.”
“I know.”
“She doesn’t even say thank you anymore.”
“I know.”
He was quiet.
“She’s always been like that. At home Dad does most things. Mom plans. She decides. But she doesn’t really do.”
“This isn’t her house.”
“I know.”
“Should I say something?”
Daniel thought for a long time.
“I don’t know.”
That was his honest answer.
“I don’t know what saying something would do.”
So I let it go.
For a while.
Then came the flower boxes.
That Saturday, Mom had gotten up at five-thirty.
Before breakfast.
She had spent weeks building six wooden flower boxes in her garage.
She painted them blue to match the shutters.
Then planted bright red geraniums in every one.
She had been excited about them for weeks.
On the drive up, she showed me pictures.
The boxes drying in her garage.
The flowers at the garden center.
The bags of soil.
“Your father always said red geraniums looked cheerful,” she told me. “Like they were having a party.”
That morning, she placed all six boxes along the deck railing.
Blue boxes.
Bright red flowers.
Blue lake behind them.
It looked beautiful.
“Mom, they’re gorgeous.”
She beamed.
Then Susan came outside.
White linen cover-up.
Large sunglasses.
Iced tea.
She walked straight to her lounger.
Sat down.
Stretched out.
Then she noticed the flowers.
She frowned.
Lowered her sunglasses.
“Oh. No.”
My mother was standing in the doorway holding a tray of blueberry muffins.
Susan pointed toward the railing.
“These are all wrong here.”
Mom stopped.
“I’m lying right here,” Susan said. “They block my whole view of the lake. I can’t see anything. Don’t do that again.”
Don’t do that again.
In my mother’s house.
About my mother’s flowers.
From my mother’s chair.
With my mother’s breakfast sitting in front of her.
I stood there holding my coffee, unable to believe what I was hearing.
Mom said,
“Oh. I didn’t think of that. I’m sorry.”
Then she set the muffin tray down.
And moved the flowers.
All six.
One by one.
Heavy wooden boxes filled with soil.
She carried them to the far corner of the deck.
Behind the grill.
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.
So I didn’t say anything that Saturday.
Not at breakfast.
Not at lunch.
Not during dinner.
I watched Mom cook for Susan.
Serve Susan.
Clean up after Susan.
Then I watched my exhausted mother go to bed at ten.
And I went upstairs and set my alarm for five.
Daniel watched me.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting up early.”
“Why?”
“I’m fixing something.”
He sat up.
“This is about the flowers?”
“It’s about the whole summer. The flowers were just the final straw.”
He watched me.
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know yet. But I’m done watching my mother exhaust herself every weekend while your mom spends the whole time in that lounger.”
I looked at him.
“Are you going to be angry with me?”
Daniel thought.
Then shook his head.
“No.”
He lay back down.
“Honestly, I should’ve done something myself weeks ago.”
At 5:07 the next morning, I found the answer.
An old dry-erase board.
About two feet by three feet.
Mom used it when I was a child.
Grocery lists.
Weather.
Little messages.
Good luck on your swim test.
Dad caught a big one.
It had been blank for years.
I carried it to the kitchen table.
Propped it against the fruit bowl.
Found a black marker.
And across the top, I wrote:
WEEKEND JOBS
Then I divided the work.
Daniel: breakfast cleanup.
Richard: grocery run.
Me: lunch.
Susan: breakfast.
Then I created a dinner rotation.
Saturday.
Sunday.
Different people responsible each night.
Susan got Saturday.
Finally, at the bottom beside Mom’s name, I wrote:
Mom: enjoy your house.
I underlined your twice.
I stood there staring at the board.
Part of me wondered whether I had gone too far.
Maybe I should erase it.
Go upstairs.
Pretend nothing happened.
Then I heard slippers behind me.
Mom was standing in the doorway.
Pink fuzzy robe.
Gray hair sticking up.
Reading glasses perched on her head.
“What are you doing? It’s five in the morning.”
“Fixing something.”
She walked over.
Pulled down her glasses.
Read the board.
Her expression changed before she reached the second line.
“No.”
“Mom—”
“No. Take that down.”
“It’s your house.”
“They’re guests.”
“They’ve been guests almost every weekend for two months.”
She lowered her voice.
“You cannot give invited guests chores. That’s not how you treat people.”
I looked at her.
“Is telling the woman who owns the house where she can put her own flowers how you treat a host?”
Her mouth tightened.
“She didn’t mean anything.”
“You moved all six flower boxes behind the trash cans.”
“It wasn’t a big deal.”
“Then put them back.”
Mom went quiet.
She looked through the kitchen window toward the deck.
The flowers were still hidden beside the grill.
I knew that expression.
She wasn’t thinking about the flowers.
She was calculating discomfort.
What would Susan think?
Would Susan complain?
Would Daniel be upset?
Would my marriage become awkward?
Would everyone think Mom had caused trouble over flowers?
She had spent her whole life doing that math.
“I’m not letting you start a fight with your mother-in-law because of me.”
“I’m not starting anything.”
I looked at her.
“I’m ending something.”
She reached toward the eraser.
I picked up the entire board.
“One day, Mom. Please. Just try one day where everyone takes care of themselves and you don’t take care of anyone.”
“But I like taking care of people.”
“I know.”
I softened my voice.
“But liking to care for people is different from being treated like everyone’s maid.”
The second I said maid, her face changed.
I knew I had hurt her.
I opened my mouth to apologize.
Then footsteps sounded upstairs.
Someone was awake.
Mom stared at the board.
“Oh, Lord.”
I set it back on the table.
Right where everyone would see it.
Mom froze.
Then she did something I had never seen her do.
She pulled out a kitchen chair.
And sat down.
She didn’t touch the coffee machine.
Didn’t open the refrigerator.
Didn’t reach for eggs.
She just sat there in her pink robe with her hands folded in her lap.
Like a guest.
She looked terrified.
Fifteen minutes later, Susan came downstairs.
Already dressed for the deck.
White cover-up.
Sandals.
Sunglasses.
Hair perfect.
She walked straight to the coffee maker.
No good morning.
Nothing.
The coffee maker was empty.
Cold.
Clean.
Susan opened one cabinet.
Then another.
Then another.
“Is the coffee not on?”
Mom’s hand automatically lifted from her lap.
Toward the coffee maker.
I gently touched her wrist.
She stopped.
Susan turned.
Saw Mom sitting at the table.
Doing absolutely nothing.
“Oh.”
She looked genuinely confused.
Then she noticed the board.
She read it.
Then read it again.
Then laughed.
“What is this?”
“Weekend jobs.”
“I can see that.”
She tilted her head.
“I’m breakfast?”
“You’re breakfast.”
Her smile faded.
“You’re serious?”
“Very.”
She stared at me.
“Your mother invited us here.”
Before I could respond, Daniel came downstairs.
T-shirt.
Pajama pants.
Hair everywhere.
He stopped at the bottom step.
Read the board.
Looked at me.
Then looked at his name.
Daniel: breakfast cleanup.
Susan turned toward him.
“Apparently, I’m making breakfast.”
She said it like she expected him to laugh.
He hesitated for half a second.
Then said,
“Okay.”
Susan stared at him.
“Okay?”
“Yeah.”
Daniel pointed toward the board.
“I’ll clean afterward.”
Susan folded her arms.
“When people stay at my house, I don’t hand them a chore list.”
At that moment, Richard came downstairs wearing his fishing hat and a T-shirt that said WORLD’S OKAYEST GOLFER.
Daniel looked at his mother.
“No, Mom. You don’t.”
He paused.
“Because Dad does the grocery shopping at your house. I usually make breakfast when I’m there. And everybody clears the table after dinner.”
Then he added,
“Everybody except you.”
Susan turned toward Richard.
Richard looked as though he desperately wanted to walk back upstairs.
He shrugged.
“I do usually shop.”
“That isn’t the point, Richard.”
But it was exactly the point.
Susan loved describing herself as a natural hostess.
And technically, she did host.
She selected menus.
Flowers.
Music.
Seating arrangements.
She directed everything beautifully.
Other people performed the work.
Richard shopped.
Daniel cooked.
Richard’s sister washed dishes.
Susan stood in the middle holding a wineglass and receiving compliments.
For a second, I saw that realization move through the kitchen.
Then Mom tried to rescue everyone.
“I can just make some eggs.”
She stood.
“No.”
I said it firmly.
Maybe too firmly.
Mom sat back down.
Susan gave me a look I knew she would remember for years.
I met it.
Then she opened the refrigerator.
“Fine.”
She stared inside.
“Where are the eggs?”
By nine, breakfast had happened.
Nobody starved.
The cabin survived.
Susan made scrambled eggs and toast.
The eggs were dry.
The toast was burned around the edges.
She couldn’t find the butter.
Or the frying pan.
Or the spatula.
Even though she had watched Mom use all of them every weekend for two months.
Three times, Mom tried to stand.
Three times, I said,
“Sit down.”
And each time, she sat.
She hated every second of it.
After breakfast, Susan stood and walked toward the deck.
Her dirty plate remained on the table.
Pure habit.
Daniel looked at the plate.
Then at her.
“Mom.”
Susan stopped.
She followed his eyes.
Then returned.
Picked up the plate.
Carried it to the sink.
Set it down harder than necessary.
And walked outside.
I thought I would feel victorious.
I didn’t.
Mostly, I felt exhausted.
And Mom looked miserable.
She sat at the table staring at the dishes as though someone had tied her hands together.
By lunch, I realized Susan wasn’t the only person struggling.
Mom followed me around the kitchen while I cooked.
“You cut those tomatoes too thick.”
“They’ll survive.”
“I can make the dressing.”
“I’ve got it.”
“The good salad bowl is underneath. Not that one. That one is for chips.”
“Mom.”
“You should spin the lettuce first or it’ll—”
“Mom.”
She stopped.
And then she asked something I’ve never forgotten.
“What am I supposed to do?”
Not,
Can I help?
Not,
Do you need anything?
What am I supposed to do?
Like she genuinely didn’t know who she was if nobody needed something from her.
“Go sit on the deck.”
“And do what?”
“Whatever you want.”
She looked completely lost.
“I don’t know what I want.”
“Then go figure it out.”
Twenty minutes later, she came downstairs wearing gardening jeans and an old T-shirt.
She carried a mystery novel I had given her for Christmas.
She had never opened it.
Mom went outside.
Sat in a plastic chair beside the flower boxes.
Opened the book.
And spent about forty-five minutes reading the same page.
Later that afternoon, I went upstairs to grab a sweater.
As I passed the guest room, I heard Susan talking to Richard.
