“What should I do?”
“Listen first. Don’t promise anything. Don’t sign anything.”
At ten minutes past ten, Mom arrived.
She wore a cream-colored coat and carried a leather handbag I had never seen before. Her hair was carefully styled, but her face looked tired. She glanced at the house as if she were visiting a place she had once loved and no longer recognized.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then she said, “You’ve changed the locks.”
“After the funeral.”
“Why?”
“Because people had been coming in and out.”
“I’m your mother.”
“You still need to knock.”
Her mouth tightened, but she stepped inside when I opened the door.
The sight of her standing in Grandma’s hallway affected me more than I expected. Mom looked older than she had in the pictures she sent me. The new car, the polished clothes, the smiling family photographs—none of them had shown the tiredness beneath her eyes.
She looked toward the kitchen.
“Does it still smell like cinnamon?”
“I baked yesterday.”
“Your grandmother always made cinnamon rolls on Sundays.”
“I know.”
“I used to help her.”
The statement surprised me.
“You did?”
“When I was young.”
I said nothing.
Mom removed her coat and placed it over the back of a chair.
“I brought something,” she said.
“What?”
She opened her handbag and took out a small metal tin.
It was dented along one side. The lid was decorated with faded red flowers.
I recognized it immediately.
“Grandma kept that in the dresser,” I said.
“She gave it to me.”
“When?”
“Years ago.”
“What’s inside?”
Mom looked at the tin but did not open it.
“Letters.”
“From Grandma?”
“Some.”
“Why do you have them?”
“Because I was her daughter.”
The words were not angry this time. They were almost pleading.
I pointed toward the kitchen table.
“Sit down.”
She sat. I took the chair across from her.
For several moments, the only sound was the ticking wall clock.
Then Mom placed the tin between us.
“Your grandmother and I had a complicated relationship,” she said.
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Then tell me.”
She touched the lid with one finger.
“When I was pregnant with you, I was twenty-two. Your father had already left. I was working two jobs and barely managing. Grandma wanted me to move back home.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because she made me feel like I had failed.”
