For one strange second, I remembered every version of my son.

Bradley at six with chicken pox.

Bradley at eleven crying after his dog died.

Bradley at seventeen asking us for money to repair his car.

Bradley at twenty-three standing next to his father in a rented tuxedo on his wedding day.

Now he was fifty, standing in my kitchen, asking why I was being difficult because I objected to strangers staying in my home.

“I’m not making it ugly,” I said. “I’m noticing that it became ugly without me.”

Ashley began gathering the papers.

“Fine. We can discuss it another time.”

“No.”

She stopped.

“We’re discussing it now.”

I walked to the refrigerator and pulled down the summer schedule she had taped there.

I folded it once.

Then again.

Ashley laughed softly.

Not cruelly.

Almost patiently.

Like I was an elderly woman being unreasonable over something trivial.

“Marianne, people have already made plans.”

I put the folded schedule into my purse.

“Then they can change them.”

Her expression shifted.

Only slightly.

But I saw it.

Fear.

That interested me.

“Some people already bought plane tickets,” she said.

“To stay in my house?”

Bradley rubbed his forehead.

“Mom, please don’t turn this into an ownership issue.”

I nearly smiled.

“It is an ownership issue.”

Ashley picked up her bag.

“I knew this would happen.”

Bradley looked at her.

She shook her head.

“You told me she would understand.”

Another conversation about me that had happened without me.

I stood.