Because family helps family.
Because Michael had asthma at three.
Because Robert was gone.
Because I was his mother.
I stared at the number.
Then I wrote another.
$18,430.
That was what remained in the retirement account I had once planned to use for travel.
Robert and I had dreamed of Maine in the fall.
New Mexico in spring.
A train trip across Canada.
After he died, I stopped making those plans.
Michael always needed something more urgent.
My phone rang at ten forty-seven.
For one foolish second, I thought he already knew.
It was my younger sister, Linda.
“You sound strange,” she said after less than a minute.
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve been my sister sixty years. Try again.”
I looked at the legal pad.
“Jennifer told me not to come to Christmas.”
Silence.
Then, “What?”
“Thomas and Diana are hosting. Apparently I don’t fit in.”
Linda used a word I hadn’t heard her say since 1984.
I almost laughed.
“Barbara, what did Michael say?”
“Nothing.”
That silenced her more effectively than Jennifer’s insult.
“Oh.”
“Yes.”
Linda knew my son.
Loved him.
But she also knew how many Sunday dinners had been canceled because Jennifer found my house “too cramped.”
She knew I was usually called to babysit, not to brunch.
She had watched me defend it all.
They’re busy.
Young families have schedules.
Jennifer is just particular.
Michael has stress at work.
