“Yes.”
“You do too.”
“Apparently not enough.”
Gregory stared through the windshield.
“After Dad died, I think we all started letting you handle things he used to handle.”
“What things?”
“Everything.”
He counted quietly on his fingers.
“Birthdays. Holidays. Keeping everyone in touch. Remembering the kids’ schedules. Making peace when Brenda and Jennifer got annoyed with each other. Calling me when I forgot something. Hosting every gathering.”
“That’s what mothers do.”
“Maybe. But we never asked whether you wanted to keep doing all of it.”
I tightened my hands on the steering wheel.
The truth was uncomfortable because I had helped create it.
There was satisfaction in being needed.
After Robert died, being useful had given shape to empty days.
If someone needed dinner, I did not have to think about the chair across from mine.
If a grandchild needed picking up, I had somewhere to go.
If Brenda needed help organizing a birthday, I could spend a week making lists rather than noticing the quiet in my bedroom.
