I had been dreading Mother’s Day for weeks.
Not because I disliked the holiday.
At the end of April, Daniel had casually mentioned:
“Vanessa is coming with her family.”
And I knew exactly what that meant.
Three days of cooking.
Three days of smiling.
Nodding.
Pretending that everything in our family was perfectly fine.
I had been pretending for so long that no one even asked how I really felt anymore.
That morning, I got up before six.
Daniel was still asleep.
So was Chloe.
I moved quietly into the kitchen and began preparing everything.
I had made the chicken casserole the night before because I would be working during the day.
I put a roast chicken in the oven.
Prepared several salads.
Baked an apple pie.
Everything had to be just right.
By three o’clock, the table was ready.
I brought out the linen tablecloth I used only on special occasions.
I set out the crystal glasses my mother-in-law had given us years earlier.
She had always said:
“These are for important celebrations.”
Apparently, Vanessa’s visit counted as one.
Chloe came out of her room.
She was fourteen.
Beautiful.
Bright.
Quiet.
Sometimes I wondered where she had inherited that quietness.
At her age, I had been loud and stubborn, always rushing somewhere, always arguing about something.
Chloe was more like still water.
She watched.
She listened.
She remembered.
I had noticed the way she looked at Vanessa.
Sometimes that look made me uncomfortable.
“Mom, can I help?” she asked.
“Of course, sweetheart. Cut the bread, please.”
She nodded and stood beside me.
We worked without speaking.
I watched her hands.
Thin fingers.
Neatly trimmed nails.
Everything about her was delicate.
Nothing like me.
I had always believed I could handle anything.
Work.
Cooking.
Disappointment.
Silence.
That was all I could think about as I moved around the kitchen:
Please let today pass peacefully.
Please let Vanessa not start anything.
The doorbell rang.
Daniel went to answer it.
I heard Vanessa’s voice before she even took off her coat.
She always spoke as if she were not arriving at someone else’s home, but returning to a place that belonged to her.
Everyone else, apparently, was only staying there temporarily.
“Danny! Finally! The drive took forever! Ethan is exhausted and starving!”
I dried my hands and stepped into the hallway.
Vanessa stood there in a new coat and expensive-looking boots, carrying several shopping bags.
She always arrived with bags.
Inside them there was invariably something useless: discount candy Chloe disliked, packaged cookies I could have baked myself.
Still, Vanessa presented those things like a queen distributing gifts to poor villagers.
“Oh, Emily, you cooked all of this yourself again?” she exclaimed. “Who still does that? You could have ordered everything.”
“I like cooking,” I replied.
And that part was true.
I liked cooking.
Especially for people who appreciated the effort.
“Well, yes. Of course you do.”
Vanessa took off her coat and dropped it over an armchair.
She did not hang it up.
She dropped it.
“Ethan, take off your jacket. We’re eating.”
Her son appeared behind her.
Ten years old.
Heavyset.
Loud.
The moment he shrugged off his coat, he ran toward the dining room.
I saw him reach over and grab a piece of chicken from the serving dish with his bare hand.
No one said a word.
Daniel hugged his sister and kissed her cheek.
He always greeted her that way.
Sometimes I felt that every one of those embraces was an apology.
For marrying me.
For having his own household.
For having a daughter.
For not giving Vanessa everything she wanted.
“Come in,” I said. “Dinner is ready.”
We began taking our seats.
I had deliberately placed Chloe beside me.
The window was on her left, and I was on her right.
Daniel sat across from us.
Vanessa, her husband, and Ethan were supposed to sit on the other side.
I had planned everything carefully.
There was enough room for everyone.
But when Vanessa entered the dining room, she stopped.
First she looked at the table.
Then at Chloe.
Then at Ethan.
I immediately knew something was about to happen.
“Chloe, sweetheart,” she said.
Her voice was gentle.
Too gentle.
“Could you move somewhere else? Ethan would be more comfortable here. He’s a growing boy, you know.”
Chloe lifted her eyes and looked at me.
Something inside me collapsed.
I knew that expression.
Without saying a word, she was asking:
Mom, what am I supposed to do?
“Vanessa, there’s plenty of space over there,” I said. “Ethan can sit on that side.”
“It’s uncomfortable there. The window is drafty. He’ll catch a cold.”
Vanessa had already taken hold of the back of Chloe’s chair.
“Chloe, you’re a smart girl. You understand, don’t you? A boy needs to eat properly. You’re practically grown. You can sit somewhere else.”
Chloe stood.
Without protest.
She picked up her plate.
I wanted to object.
I wanted to shout:
Sit back down. This is your place.
But I looked at Daniel.
He was staring into his plate.
Eating.
As if nothing unusual was happening.