On my seventy-eighth birthday, my own children scrolled through their phones while I served dinner. That night, I decided to teach them a lesson they’d never forget.
I’d spent forty years patching up other people’s lives in the local clinic, but no one had time to patch up mine. Funny thing about getting old in Ohio: you stop existing unless someone needs your checkbook or your casserole.
I stood by the kitchen window that morning, watching the snow melt off the bird feeder.
The house smelled like baked chicken and lemon pie.
I’d ironed the tablecloth with the tiny tulips, the same one we used back when the kids were little and birthdays meant laughter instead of awkward silence.
The phone stayed quiet.
At six, headlights flashed through the window.
Finally.
I took off my apron and brushed my hair.
“Okay, Alice, smile,” I whispered to myself.
The door creaked open.
“Hey, Ma,” my son Todd said, stepping inside with his wife, Cheryl. She didn’t even take off her coat.
“You still keep it this warm in here?
Feels like a sauna.”
“It’s winter, Todd. You’ll thaw out.” I tried to laugh.
“Come on in, dinner’s ready.”
He sniffed the air.
“Smells… old-fashioned.
Fried stuff?”
Cheryl sat at the table, pulling out her phone. “I told you, Todd, we could’ve just grabbed takeout.
This is quaint.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I thought we could eat together like old times.”
“Sure, sure,” Todd said, already opening a beer from the fridge without asking.
“Where’s June?”
“She texted she’d be late.
Something about a hair appointment.”
***
Half an hour later, my daughter finally burst in, heels clicking on the linoleum.
“Mom, you look… well.
I had no idea we were doing a full dinner thing. I thought it was just cake.”
I smiled.
“I made your favorite pie.”
She looked around.
“Oh. You still have that same wallpaper.
You really should redecorate before you—well, before you know.” Before I what?
Die?
Move into assisted living?
I pretended not to hear.
We sat down. Only the sound of forks scraping plates.
“So,” June said, chewing without looking at me, “what are you doing with the house, Mom? I mean, it’s big for just one person.”
Cheryl laughed softly.
“Don’t rush her, June.”
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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