The first night my daughter-in-law moved into my house, she handed me a printed sheet of paper. Neat bullet points. Firm tone. At the bottom, in italics: Please respect our family routine.
“Eat after us, be in your room by eight, and no visitors without permission.”
I read it twice. Then I looked at my son, Daniel. He was staring at the floor like it owed him money.
Three weeks earlier he had called me in tears. His hours at the printing company had been cut, their lease was ending, and he and Melissa — pregnant with their second — needed a place to land while they got back on their feet. I had lived alone since my husband Robert died six years before. Four bedrooms. Of course I said yes. I cleared two rooms, emptied half the garage, and paid $1,180 for their moving truck. Daniel protested for about thirty seconds. Melissa didn’t protest at all.
Within days, my kitchen had been reorganized, my thermostat had been turned down, and my television was apparently too loud. Then came the rules.
“My house has never had an eight o’clock bedtime,” I said.
Daniel sighed. “Mom, please. Just keep the peace.”
I looked at him for a long moment. Then I folded the paper once, set it on the counter, and said, “All right.”