At the bottom she had written: Please respect our family routine.
I looked at Daniel. “You’re asking me to eat after everyone else?”
He rubbed his forehead. “Mom, please. It’s temporary. Just keep the peace.”
Temporary. That word was becoming very convenient. Temporary control of my kitchen. Temporary control of my evenings. Temporary permission to tell a 68-year-old woman when she could have company in the house she owned.
Then Melissa added one more thing. “And please stop inviting those friends over. They’re loud.”
That was the moment something in me settled.
Those three women had sat beside me during my husband’s chemotherapy. They brought food after his funeral. They stayed late when the silence in the house became unbearable. One of them helped me repaint the kitchen because I couldn’t stand looking at the color my husband had chosen anymore.
Melissa had been living under my roof for barely a week. And now she was deciding who counted as welcome.
I folded the rules once. Then again. “All right,” I said.
Melissa smiled. Daniel looked relieved. Neither of them understood what I meant.