Chapter 3 - The Geraniums
Then came the flower boxes.
That Saturday, Mom had gotten up at five-thirty.
Before breakfast.
She had spent weeks building six wooden flower boxes in her garage.
She painted them blue to match the shutters.
Then planted bright red geraniums in every one.
She had been excited about them for weeks.
On the drive up, she showed me pictures.
The boxes drying in her garage.
The flowers at the garden center.
The bags of soil.
“Your father always said red geraniums looked cheerful,” she told me. “Like they were having a party.”
That morning, she placed all six boxes along the deck railing.
Blue boxes.
Bright red flowers.
Blue lake behind them.
It looked beautiful.
“Mom, they’re gorgeous.”
She beamed.
Then Susan came outside.
White linen cover-up.
Large sunglasses.
Iced tea.
She walked straight to her lounger.
Sat down.
Stretched out.
Then she noticed the flowers.
She frowned.
Lowered her sunglasses.
“Oh. No.”
My mother was standing in the doorway holding a tray of blueberry muffins.
Susan pointed toward the railing.
“These are all wrong here.”
Mom stopped.
“I’m lying right here,” Susan said. “They block my whole view of the lake. I can’t see anything. Don’t do that again.”
Don’t do that again.
In my mother’s house.
About my mother’s flowers.
From my mother’s chair.
With my mother’s breakfast sitting in front of her.
I stood there holding my coffee, unable to believe what I was hearing.
Mom said,
“Oh. I didn’t think of that. I’m sorry.”
Then she set the muffin tray down.
And moved the flowers.
All six.
One by one.
Heavy wooden boxes filled with soil.
She carried them to the far corner of the deck.
Behind the grill.
Beside the trash cans.
Susan never stood up.
Never offered to help.
Never said,
“Oh, forget it. Leave them.”
She just watched.
When Mom finished moving the last box, Susan put her sunglasses back on.
“That’s much better. Thanks, Maggie.”
It was the first thank-you I had heard from her in weeks.
I knew my mother.
She was gentle.
Too gentle sometimes.
She was the kind of woman who apologized to furniture when she bumped into it.
She would tolerate almost anything to avoid conflict.
Especially if she thought conflict might affect me.
She would have moved those flower boxes a hundred times.
She would have driven into town for expensive mayonnaise a hundred times.
She would have picked up Susan’s coffee cup every morning forever.
And she would never complain.
Because she didn’t want trouble between me and my new family.
That was exactly why I couldn’t keep ignoring it.
But I also knew shouting at Susan would solve nothing.
If I confronted her publicly, she would go home and tell everyone that Daniel’s new wife had attacked her out of nowhere.
Her sister.
Her church friends.
Her book club.
And I would spend the next thirty Christmases sitting across from a woman convinced I hated her.
So I didn’t say anything that Saturday.
Not at breakfast.
Not at lunch.
Not during dinner.
I watched Mom cook for Susan.
Serve Susan.
Clean up after Susan.
May you like
Then I watched my exhausted mother go to bed at ten.
And I went upstairs and set my alarm for five.
