I stood in the hallway with the towels.
“She’s been here eighteen months,” Renee said. “You said a while. You said until she’s ready. When is she going to be ready?”
I waited.
Surely my son would say something.
Surely he would remind her that I picked up their children every single day. That I cooked four nights a week. That I drove to soccer and piano and swim and tutoring. That I’d watched their kids for nine days while they were in Cabo.
That I’d sold my house. My yellow kitchen. My roses.
Because he asked me to.
Just until you’re ready, Mom.
I waited.
Daniel sighed.
“I know,” he said.
Nothing else.
No defense.
No She takes care of the kids, Renee. No She cooks for us. No She’s my mother.
Just agreement.
I know.
I put the towels in the linen closet.
