Chapter 5 - My mother calls it complicated
My mother’s name was Diane.
Sixty-two.
Widowed.
Retired elementary-school secretary.
For most of my life, Diane’s greatest skill was converting clear conflict into fog.
Natalie called me selfish.
Mom:
“She’s stressed.”
I skipped a family dinner.
Mom:
“Everyone could communicate better.”
My father lost his temper.
Mom:
“You know he hates feeling ignored.”
No one was ever simply responsible.
Everything was:
Complicated.
Three days after the party, Diane asked to meet.
I agreed without Grace.
Public café.
She looked terrible.
No makeup.
Hands shaking slightly.
“Is Grace okay?”
“Physically, yes.”
She nodded.
Then started crying.
I waited.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For all of it.”
“Too broad.”
She looked hurt.
I did not rescue her.
“What did you see?”
Diane wiped her eyes.
“Natalie took Grace toward the bathroom.”
“Why?”
“She was upset about the crown.”
“Did you know why?”
“She thought Grace was taking over.”
“She is four.”
“I know.”
“Did you see Natalie grab her?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see her hit Grace?”
Diane looked away.
There.
“Mom.”
“I saw movement.”
“What does that mean?”
“I saw Natalie turn her.”
“Did you see her hand touch Grace’s face?”
“I heard the sound.”
My stomach dropped.
“You heard her hit my daughter.”
“I didn’t know how hard.”
“Did you go to Grace?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Natalie said she was handling it.”
I stared.
“Handling what?”
“Claire—”
“Handling what?”
Diane whispered:
“Grace was crying and yelling.”
“She was being dragged into a bathroom.”
“I know how it looks now.”
I laughed.
“How it looks?”
Diane flinched.
“I told Natalie to stop.”
“Then?”
“She said it was fine.”
“And you believed her?”
“No.”
There.
“Then why did you stand there?”
She started crying harder.
“I didn’t want the party destroyed.”
May you like
That was the sentence.
The one underneath everything.
