The last time I saw my mother alive, she was standing over her stove with a wooden spoon in one hand, stirring a giant pot of chicken soup that looked big enough to feed half the neighborhood.
“Mom,” I asked, “who are you cooking all of that for?”
She didn’t even look up.
“You. Your brother. Vanessa. The kids. Whoever needs it.”
“Whoever?”
Mom tapped the spoon against the rim of the pot.
“There’s always somebody who needs soup, Bethie.”
That was Dorothy Larsen.
My mother.
Seventy-four years old, barely five-foot-one, with snow-white hair she still curled every Saturday night and reading glasses hanging from a beaded chain around her neck because otherwise she’d lose them somewhere ridiculous.
Usually the refrigerator.
She had been making soup every Sunday for as long as I could remember.
Chicken noodle.
Beef barley.
Split pea with ham.
Minestrone whenever the weather turned cold.
She poured everything into cheap plastic containers, labeled the lids with a black marker in her looping handwriting, and carried them downstairs to the basement freezer.
CHICKEN NOODLE – NOV.
BEEF BARLEY – FOR GREG.
SPLIT PEA – SAVE SOME FOR LILY.
The freezer itself was an ancient white chest freezer Dad bought years before he died.
It was enormous.
The lid stuck every time you opened it, and the motor hummed so loudly you could sometimes hear it from upstairs.
Dad had originally bought it for venison.
After he died, Mom filled it with soup instead.
That Sunday, she glanced at me and said,
“I’m filling it before winter. That way everybody will have enough.”
I laughed.
“Mom, I live two hours away. I’m not driving all the way to Altoona for frozen soup.”
“You’ll come,” she said.
Then she stirred the pot again.
“When it’s time, you’ll come.”
I thought she was simply being dramatic.
Mom said strange little things like that sometimes.
Before I left, she followed me outside.
She hugged me in the driveway longer than usual.
Then she pulled away and looked directly into my face.
“The freezer is full, Bethie.”
“Okay.”
“No matter what happens, don’t let anybody throw away my soup.”
I smiled.
“Nobody is throwing out your soup.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
She touched my cheek.
Nine days later, Mom suffered a stroke while trimming the roses beside her house.
Her neighbor found her.
By the time help arrived, she was already gone.
My name is Beth Larsen.
I’m forty-five years old and work as a cardiac nurse in Pittsburgh.
I’ve been divorced for six years.
My daughter Kelsey is away at college in Ohio, and she calls me every Thursday night without fail.
I also have one younger brother.
Greg.
Growing up, Greg was everyone’s favorite.
Funny.
Loud.
Charming.
He had Dad’s broad shoulders and Mom’s blue eyes.
He played football, dated cheerleaders, and somehow managed to charm teachers even when he never finished his assignments.
I was the opposite.
Responsible.
Quiet.
Always home before curfew.
I went to nursing school, moved away, built a career.
I loved Greg.
I still do.
But even as children, I knew he could get away with things I never could.
Greg stayed in Altoona.
At twenty-eight, he started a construction business called Larsen & Sons Contracting even though there had never actually been any sons involved.
He just thought the name sounded established.
For a while, the business did well.
He married Vanessa at thirty.
She was a dental hygienist.
Gentle.
Steady.
Dark hair usually pulled into a ponytail.
She had a laugh that always sounded as if she hadn’t expected to be amused.
They had two children.
Tyler, twelve.
Ava, nine.
Mom adored Vanessa.
She used to say Vanessa was the best decision Greg ever made.
I liked her too, although we were never especially close.
I lived far enough away that most of our time together happened at holidays, birthdays, and family dinners.
But over the last couple of years, Vanessa had changed.
She became quieter.
At Thanksgiving the previous year, she barely spoke.
She looked exhausted.
Too thin.
When Greg made jokes, she stared at her plate.
Later, while Mom and I washed dishes, I asked,
“Is Vanessa okay?”
Mom scrubbed a roasting pan without answering.
Finally, she said,
“She has a lot going on.”
“What kind of things?”
Mom dried her hands and looked at me.
“Not my story to tell.”
That was all she would say.
Mom’s funeral took place on Tuesday at St. Mary’s.
She had attended Mass there for more than fifty years.
The church was packed.
Neighbors.
Former neighbors.
People from Dad’s union.
The pharmacist.
The mail carrier.
Women from the altar guild.
A thin man from the downtown soup kitchen where Mom had volunteered every Thursday for twenty years approached me after the service.
“Your mother brought us soup every week,” he said, his eyes filling with tears. “She always said there was always somebody who needed soup.”
I swallowed.
“She told me the same thing.”
Greg delivered the eulogy.
He was good at public speaking.
Always had been.
He told stories about Mom losing her glasses in the refrigerator, calling every grandchild on their birthday, and arguing with a grocery store over nineteen cents.
Everyone laughed.
Everyone cried.
But while Greg spoke, I noticed his hands trembling against the podium.
Every few seconds, his eyes flicked toward the church doors.
As if he were waiting for someone.
Vanessa sat beside me with the children.
She never looked at him when he returned to the pew.
At the luncheon afterward, Greg approached me with a plate of ham and potato salad.
“We need to talk about the house.”
I stared at him.
“Greg, we buried Mom today.”
“I know. But I’m the executor. Mom put me in charge of the estate, remember?”
He rubbed his neck.
“I think we should sell immediately. The market’s good. If we wait until spring, who knows what happens.”
“It’s been four days since she died.”
“I know.”
He lowered his voice.
“I already spoke to a real estate agent. He thinks we could list within two weeks. I also arranged for a junk-removal company to clear the basement and garage on Monday.”
