Chapter 38

I pull out a chair and take a seat at the kitchen table. I watch my mother rummaging frantically in the cupboards for something, flipping open doors and closing them like she is Vanna White turning letters. I am reminded how much I am like my mother: a lively, frantic soul anxious about everything.

I look at her and wonder: How many more years do we have together?

Closing my eyes against a surge of stinging tears, I lean my head forward into my tented hands, praying. I think of Dad leaving us.

Then my mother pipes up, breaking the stillness.

I open my eyes to her motherly hands sliding over my shoulders, consoling me, fingerprints of flour on my pajamas. She leans down and whispers, “Your father and I appreciate all you have done for us. Bringing us here to your home for Christmas has made us very happy.”

It’s been too long.

“Mom. Please sit.” I guide her from behind my chair to the seat opposite me.

She is breathless. “But I need to finish my amazing trifle.”