On my dresser sat the receipt for the holiday meal.
I had prepaid more than nine hundred dollars for dinner for eighteen people.
Turkey.
Side dishes.
Desserts.
Drinks.
No one had asked me to do it.
I simply believed that giving was how mothers proved their love.
Then memories began returning with painful clarity.
The previous Christmas, I had cooked for two days.
Amanda and Martin arrived late, ate quickly, then left because they had plans with friends. Robert and Lucy stayed only slightly longer.
The grandchildren remained with me until well after midnight.
I prepared beds, helped them wash, settled arguments, read stories, and stayed awake while their parents celebrated elsewhere.
The year before had been almost identical.
Birthdays and family parties followed the same pattern.
I cooked.
I cleaned.
I watched the children.
Everyone else enjoyed the occasion.
Yet when my own birthday came, no one remembered.
Amanda called three days late.
