She had the confidence of a queen, the manners of a critic, and the self-awareness of a paper plate in a windstorm.
Whenever she visited, she brought her two daughters, Sarah and Kate, plus six grandchildren who seemed to multiply the second they crossed the threshold. They arrived like a traveling carnival of noise, demands, sticky fingers, and empty hands.
A few weeks before the Fourth, she called to announce their Memorial Day visit as if she were doing me a favor.
“Annie, darling, we’re coming for Memorial Day,” she said brightly. “The kids just love your ribs.”
Of course they loved them. I bought the ribs. I marinated them. I cooked them. I served them. Then Juliette sat in my patio chair and told me what I had done wrong.
That Memorial Day had been another exhausting performance.
Juliette walked in and immediately started rearranging my living room like she had been hired to redesign the place.
