Margaret lived approximately three hours away, and the two women had known each other since childhood.
When Mom told me Margaret’s daughter had invited her for a week, I’d encouraged her to go.
“You haven’t seen her in ages,” I’d said.
“Twenty years,” Mom replied.
“Then you absolutely should visit.”
She hesitated.
“I don’t like leaving you with everything.”
I’d laughed.
“Mom, I’m fifty-two. I think I can survive one week without your Sunday dinners.”
She’d smiled and finally agreed.
The following Monday, I drove her to the station.
She carried her usual little blue travel bag, packed with clothing, medication, and homemade cookies for Margaret.
Before boarding, she handed me a phone number.
“That’s Margaret’s number, just in
case you need to reach me.”
I saved it without thinking.
We spoke twice during the week.
Both times, Mom insisted she was enjoying herself.
But whenever I asked what they’d been doing, she quickly changed the subject.
