The Place at the Table
“Take your dinner outside.”
Linda pointed toward the back door as though she owned the house.
Margaret sat frozen at the dining table, staring at the bowl of beef stew she had spent three hours preparing.
The room went silent.
Her grandchildren stopped eating. Her son, Edward, kept his eyes lowered, pretending the food in front of him required his full attention.
Margaret was sixty-eight years old.
She had lived in that Chicago brick house for nearly thirty years.
She and her late husband, Anthony, had bought it when Edward was still a child. They had repaired the roof, painted every room, planted flowers, and made the final mortgage payment together.
The deed carried Margaret’s name.
The property taxes came to her mailbox.
The house belonged to her.
Yet Linda leaned back in her chair and spoke as if Margaret were the unwanted guest.
“This is my house now,” she said.
Margaret slowly turned toward her son.
“Edward?”
He shifted uncomfortably.
“Mom, Linda’s just trying to keep things organized.”
Seven words.
That was all he offered after Margaret had opened her home to him, his wife, and their two children when Edward lost his job.
She had cleared the guest room.
She had bought the children’s favorite cereal.
She had moved Anthony’s teaching boxes into the basement so Linda could have more closet space.
And now Linda was giving orders at the dining table Margaret and Anthony had saved for years to buy.
Margaret folded her napkin.
Linda’s shoulders relaxed, convinced she had won.
Then Margaret stood and walked toward the old wall phone beside the dining room.
Linda actually smiled.
“Calling your friend Carol?” she asked.
Margaret lifted the receiver.
