“No, Brenda.”
“What?”
“We did not misunderstand each other. You told me not to get in the car.”
“The cars were full.”
“You said I would get in the way.”
“You know how trips are with the kids.”
“And yet the food I made managed to find room.”
She exhaled sharply.
“Mom.”
I waited.
For once, I did not hurry to make the silence comfortable for her.
She spoke more softly.
“I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”
“How did you mean it?”
No answer came.
That hurt more than I expected.
Brenda had always been quick with words.
Even as a child, she could explain why the broken lamp was really the fault of gravity.
Now she had nothing.
Finally she said, “What are we supposed to do?”
I looked around my kitchen.
There it was.
The question that had organized most of my adult life.
What are we supposed to do?
