Chapter 3
One thing at a time. That became our phrase.
Mara said it whenever I started thinking six months ahead.
“What about the house?” “One thing at a time.” “The bank account?” “One thing at a time.” “The baby’s room?” “One thing at a time.” “What am I supposed to tell Mom?”
That time Mara hesitated. And I noticed.
“You haven't told her?” “No.” “Why?” “I thought you should decide.”
Our mother lived forty minutes away in the same yellow house where Mara and I had grown up. She and I had barely spoken for six months. Our last conversation had ended badly. She had asked whether I was happy. I had accused her of judging my marriage. She said she wasn't judging anything. I told her to stop calling. She did.
At the time, I had felt vindicated.
Now, lying beneath a hospital blanket while morning light spread across the floor, I suddenly remembered the silence after our final phone call. My mother had not argued. She had only said, “All right, sweetheart. But if you ever need me, you don't need to explain first.”
Almost the same thing Mara had said.
I turned toward the window. “Call her.”
“You're sure?” “No.”
Mara waited. I looked at her. “But call her.”
Mom arrived carrying my childhood quilt. Not flowers. Not balloons. Not questions. The quilt.
She had made it from pieces of old fabric when I left for university. There were squares from one of Mara's childhood dresses, my father's old blue work shirt, a yellow curtain from our first kitchen, and a ridiculous piece of fabric covered in tiny strawberries.
I hadn't seen it in years. Mom placed it at the foot of the bed.
“I thought hospitals were cold.”
That was all she said. Her hair had become grayer since Christmas. Or perhaps I had simply stopped noticing.
May you like
“Hi, Mom.” “Hi, darling.”
She sat.
