“That isn’t why I’m angry.”
“I know that too.”
Then I looked at Melissa.
“Did you know?”
“Know what?”
“That Mom considers all this part of what you would eventually inherit?”
Melissa didn’t answer.
“Melissa.”
“Yes.”
My anger returned instantly.
“You knew?”
“Mom told me.”
“So you knew she had already given you more than a hundred thousand dollars. And yesterday, for her seventieth birthday, you handed her twenty dollars and joked that she didn’t need much?”
“Amanda, this isn’t about twenty dollars.”
“You’re right. It isn’t.”
Mom stood.
“Enough.”
“No, Mom.”
I turned toward her.
“How many times have you told me something was too expensive?”
“I never said I couldn’t afford anything.”
“You said it wasn’t worth spending the money.”
“Sometimes it wasn’t.”
“Your old car was falling apart before you finally replaced it.”
“It still ran.”
“You canceled the trip with your friends.”
“I didn’t care that much about going.”
“You always say that.”
Mom’s face changed.
She didn’t look angry.
She looked sad.
“Amanda, I chose what to do with my money.”
That silenced me.
“I wasn’t tricked,” she continued. “Melissa didn’t steal from me. I helped my daughter because I wanted to.”
Melissa looked up.
Mom continued.
“I was proud when they bought their first house. I was proud when the clinics became successful. I loved watching my grandchildren while Melissa worked. Don’t turn things I was happy to give into something ugly simply because you’re angry.”
I sat down.
She was right.
I wanted Mom to be angry because I was angry.
But those were two different things.
Still, there was one question I couldn’t let go.
I looked toward the scrapbook lying on the dresser.
“Then why did you hide Melissa’s birthday card under your plate yesterday?”
Mom froze.
Melissa turned toward her.
“Mom?”
Mom started putting documents back into the folder.
“It was nothing.”
“No,” I said gently. “That’s what you always say.”
She gave me a warning look.
I lowered my voice.
“Did what Melissa said hurt you?”
Mom didn’t answer.
Melissa stood.
“Mom, I was joking.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“I know that too.”
Mom closed the drawer.
Then she looked directly at Melissa.
“It wasn’t about the twenty dollars.”
Melissa visibly relaxed.
Mom noticed.
“Don’t look relieved.”
Melissa’s expression disappeared.
“You could have given me nothing,” Mom continued. “You could have written ‘Happy Birthday’ on a scrap of notebook paper and I would have loved it.”
“Then what did I do?”
Mom’s voice became quiet.
“You said, ‘At her age, she doesn’t need much.’”
Melissa stared at her.
“I was joking.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you upset?”
Mom took a long breath.
“Because I’m seventy, Melissa.”
She paused.
“I’m not finished.”
Nobody moved.
“I still like things. I still want to travel. I still get excited about plans. I still want people to think about me sometimes.”
Melissa’s eyes filled with tears.
Mom continued.
“I spent years telling both of you not to worry about me. Maybe I did that too well.”
Melissa wiped beneath one eye.
“I didn’t mean you weren’t worth anything.”
“I know you didn’t.”
Mom’s voice trembled slightly.
“But for one moment yesterday, that’s how it felt.”
Melissa sat down.
And for the first time since Mom opened the drawer, she stopped defending herself.
Her eyes drifted toward the scrapbook.
She picked it up.
Several pages had bent when she grabbed it earlier.
She carefully flattened one with her palm.
It contained a Mother’s Day card Melissa had made when she was seven.
The handwriting was crooked.
She had drawn Mom with purple hair because apparently we had owned only a handful of crayons.
Melissa laughed through her tears.
“You kept this?”
“Of course.”
She turned another page.
A paper flower.
A photograph of the three of us wearing matching pajamas.
A note I had written apologizing for breaking a lamp after blaming the cat.
