My reflection stared back from the black screen\u2014gray roots peeking through a careful dye job, hospital\u2011yellow bruises blooming from surgical tape, a throat gone tight with that old mixture of love and dread only family can mix to perfection. The surgeon had ordered six to eight weeks of rest. My little brick bungalow still carried the thin, medicinal bite of antiseptic from the visiting nurse; the walker\u2019s tennis balls whispered over hardwood like a metronome. Even the kettle\u2014my dented faithful\u2014clicked off too loudly.<\/p>\n
Ashley didn\u2019t care. She married my son fifteen years ago and has treated me like unpaid staff ever since. Need a sitter? Call Grandma Dot. After\u2011party cleanup? Grandma Dot. Forty\u2011three years of nursing, a husband buried three years back, a house that echoes like a church after service\u2014none of it factored into her math.<\/p>\n
At 2:30 on the dot, the doorbell. Through the lace curtain: Ashley, parade\u2011marshal stride. Emma, twelve, tugged in her wake. Jake, nine, wrestling a damp\u2011eyed six\u2011year\u2011old Lily and a rabbit with one ear. Emma\u2019s uniform wrinkled, Jake\u2019s shoes mismatched. Ashley wore sunglasses big enough to shade a conscience.<\/p>\n
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