Nobody said the moment was sacred.
Nobody had to.
When I got home three weeks later, the email from Lorraine was waiting in my inbox.
Subject: Can we talk?
I was standing in my kitchen making peach jam. Samuel’s recipe. The one that required more patience than sugar. My laptop sat open on the counter because I was using it for the pectin ratio chart, and the little email chime cut through the bubbling fruit.
I opened it.
Mom, I know things have been difficult. Kevin and I have been going through a lot since the lake house situation. We had to cancel our Fourth of July plans, obviously, and the kids were really upset. Kevin’s parents had to get a hotel at the last minute and it was embarrassing for everyone. I’m not saying you were wrong to feel hurt. Maybe we should have communicated better. Kevin admits he could have handled the lock thing differently. And maybe the attorney letter was too much. We were just trying to be practical.
I read that paragraph twice before moving on.
Practical.
As if motherhood were a branch of property management.
Then came the point.
But here’s the thing, Mom. We’re in a tough spot financially. Kevin’s bonus didn’t come through and the kids’ school tuition is due next month. I was wondering if you could help. Not a lot. Maybe $15,000 to cover the gap? We’re still family. I know we’ve had our differences, but I don’t want money to come between us. Let me know. Love, Lorraine.
I stood there with a wooden spoon in one hand and peach foam rising in the pot and felt almost nothing at first.
That, more than rage, told me how done I was.
