Mornings in Blue Springs always start the same way. I wake up at first light when most of my neighbors are still asleep. At seventy-eight, one appreciates each new day as a gift. To be honest, though, some days are more like an ordeal, especially when my joints ache so badly that even walking to the bathroom becomes a feat.

My little house on Maplewood Avenue isn’t what it used to be. The wallpaper in the living room has faded over thirty years, and the wooden porch steps creak louder each spring. George, my husband, was always going to fix them, but he never got around to it before his heart attack. Eight years have passed, and I still talk to him sometimes in the mornings, telling him the news as if he’s just gone out to the garden and will be back soon. This is the house where my children, Wesley and Thelma, grew up. Everything here remembers their baby steps, their laughter, and their fights. Now it seems like those happy, noisy days never happened.

Thelma comes in once a month, always in a hurry, always looking at her watch. Wesley shows up more often, but only when he needs something—usually money or a signature on some paperwork. Every time he swears he’ll pay it back soon, but in fifteen years he’s never paid it back.

Today is Wednesday, the day I usually bake blueberry pie. Not for me—I can’t eat that much on my own. It’s for Reed, my grandson. The only one in the family who visits me without an ulterior motive. He comes just to spend time with his old grandmother, drink tea, talk about his college business. I hear the gate slam, and I know it’s him. Reed has a peculiar gait—light but a little clumsy—as if he’s not used to his tall stature yet. He inherited it from his grandfather.

“Grandmother Edith,” his voice comes from the doorway. “I smell a specialty pie.”

“Sure you do,” I say, smiling, wiping my hands on my apron. “Come on in. It’s just about the right temperature.”

Reed leans over to hug me. Now I have to tilt my head back to see his face. It’s strange. When did he get so big?

“How’s school going?” I ask, sitting him down at the kitchen table.

“Still struggling with higher math. I got an A on my last exam,” Reed says proudly, eating his pie. “Professor Duval even asked me to work on a research project.”

“I always knew you were smart.” I pour his tea. “Your grandfather would be proud of you.”

Reed is silent for a moment, staring out the window at the old apple tree. I know what he’s thinking. George taught him to climb it when he was only seven. Wesley yelled that we’d never do the kid any good. And George just laughed. “A boy’s got to be able to fall down and get up.”

“Grandma, have you decided what you’re going to wear on Friday?” Reed suddenly asks, returning to the pie.

“Friday?” I look at him, puzzled. “What’s going to be on Friday?”

Reed freezes with his fork in the air. A strange expression appears on his face, a mixture of surprise and confusion. “Dinner. It’s Dad and Mom’s wedding anniversary. Thirty years. They have reservations at Willow Creek. Didn’t Dad tell you?”

I slowly sit down across from him, feeling something chill inside. Thirty years of my son’s marriage is a significant date. Of course, they should celebrate. But why am I hearing about it from my grandson and not Wesley himself?

“Maybe he was going to call,” I answer, trying to keep my voice lighthearted. “You know your father—always putting things off until the last minute.”

Reed looks uncomfortable, picking at the leftover pie with his fork. “I guess he does,” he agrees without much conviction.

We move on to other topics. Reed talks about his plans for the summer, about a girl named Audrey he met at the library. I listen, nodding, asking questions, but my thoughts keep returning to this dinner. Why hasn’t Wesley called? Is he really planning to celebrate without me?

When Reed leaves, promising to stop by over the weekend, I stand at the window for a long time, staring out at the empty street. In the house across the street, Mrs. Fletcher, my age, plays with her grandchildren. Her daughter comes every Wednesday, bringing the kids. They are noisy, running around the yard, and old Beatrice is glowing with happiness. I wish my children could be there too.

The phone rings, interrupting my thoughts. I recognize Wesley’s number immediately.

“Mom, it’s me.” His voice sounds a little strained.

“Hello, darling,” I answer, trying to sound normal. “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine. Listen, I’m calling about Friday—”

“So you were going to ask me after all.” Warmth rises in me. Maybe I was wrong to think badly of them. Maybe they were just running around and didn’t give me enough notice.

“Cora and I were planning a little anniversary dinner,” Wesley continues. “But unfortunately, we’re going to have to cancel. Cora caught some kind of virus—fever, the whole thing. The doctor said she needs to stay home for at least a week.”

“Oh, that’s too bad.” I’m genuinely saddened, though there’s something in his voice that makes me uneasy. “Is there anything I can do to help? Can I bring some chicken broth or—”

“No, no, that’s okay,” Wesley interrupts hastily. “We have everything. I just wanted to let you know. We’ll reschedule for another day when Cora is better. We’ll be sure to call you.”

“Of course, darling. Give her my best wishes for a speedy recovery.”

“I will. Okay, Mom, I’ve got to run. I’ll call you later.”

He hangs up before I can say anything else. The conversation leaves a strange aftertaste. Something’s wrong, but I can’t figure out what it is.

I spend the rest of the day flipping through old photo albums. Here’s Wesley at five years old with a knocked-out front tooth and a proud smile. Here’s Thelma on her first bike. George teaching them to swim in the lake. Christmas dinners when we all got together. When did all that change? When did my children become so distant?

That evening, I call Thelma, casually asking about Cora. To my surprise, she knows nothing about my daughter-in-law’s illness.

“Mom, I have a lot to do at the store before the weekend,” she says impatiently. “If you want to know about Cora, call Wesley.”

“But you’re coming to their anniversary on Friday, right?” I ask cautiously.

The pause on the other end of the line is too long.

“Oh, that’s what you mean. Yeah… sure,” Thelma finally answers. “Look, I really have to go. I’ll talk to you later.”

And then the short beeps again.

I stare at the phone, feeling the anxiety growing inside. They’re hiding something, both of them.

Thursday morning, I go to the local supermarket. I don’t so much need to get groceries as to stretch my legs and clear my head. In the vegetable section, I run into Doris Simmons, an old acquaintance who works in the same flower store as Thelma.

“Edith, it’s been a long time,” she exclaims, hugging me. “How’s your health?”

“Not bad for my age,” I smile. “Are you still working with Thelma?”

“Of course I am. Only tomorrow is my day off. Thelma’s taking the evening off for a family celebration. I hear thirty years is a big date.”

I nod, trying to hide my confusion. So dinner wasn’t canceled. So Wesley lied to me. But why?

When I get home, I sit in my chair for a long time, trying to figure out what’s going on. Maybe they’re springing a surprise on me. But then why the lies about Cora being sick? And why was Thelma acting so strangely?

The phone rings again, but it’s not Wesley or Thelma. It’s Reed.

“Grandma, I forgot to ask. Have you seen my blue notebook? I think I left it at your place last time.”

“Let me see.” I go into the living room where Reed usually sits. I don’t see it. “Maybe it’s in the kitchen.”

While I’m looking, Reed keeps talking. “If you find it, can you give it to Dad tomorrow? He’ll pick you up, right?”

I freeze with the phone to my ear. “Pick me up?”

“Well, yeah— for dinner at Willow Creek. I can stop by if you want, but I have classes until six. I’m afraid I’ll be late for the start.”

I grip the phone tighter. “Reed, honey, I think you’re confused. Your dad told me dinner was canceled. Cora is sick.”

Reed is silent for a long time. Too long.

“Reed,” I call. “Are you there?”

“Grandma, I— I don’t understand. Dad called me an hour ago asking if I could be at the restaurant by seven. Nobody canceled anything.”

I slowly sink into the couch. So that’s how it is. I was simply decided out of the evening. My own son lied to me so I wouldn’t come to the family celebration.

“Grandma, are you okay?” Reed’s voice sounds concerned.

“Yes, honey. I’m fine.” I try to keep my voice normal. “I must have misunderstood something. You know, at my age, you get confused sometimes. I’m sure it’s some kind of misunderstanding.”

“Do you want me to call my dad and find out?”

“No,” I answer hastily. “There’s no need. I’ll talk to him myself. Don’t worry.”

After the conversation, I sit in silence for a long time, looking at the picture of us all together—me, George, the kids—happy, smiling. When did it all go wrong? When did I become a burden to them? Better left at home than taken to a family party.

Resentment and bitterness rise up inside, but I force myself to breathe deeply. Now is not the time for tears. Now is the time to think. If my kids don’t want me at the family reunion, then I’ve become a stranger to them, and I need to figure out why.

I walk over to the closet where I keep old letters and documents. Among them are George’s will, the insurance policy, the deed to the house. Wesley has hinted several times that I should sign the house over to him. “For your own safety, Mom.” Thelma suggested I sell it and move into a nursing home. “They’ll take better care of you than we can.” I always refused, sensing that there was something else behind those suggestions. Now, I think I’m beginning to realize what it is.

In the evening, the phone rings. This time, it’s Cora, my daughter-in-law. Her voice sounds cheerful and energetic— for someone with a high fever and bed rest.

“Edith, honey, how are you? Wesley said he called you about Friday.”

“Yes. He said you were sick and dinner was canceled,” I answer in a steady voice.

“That’s right,” Cora confirms— too hastily. “It’s a terrible virus. Just knocked me off my feet. The doctor prescribed bed rest for at least a week.”

“I hope you feel better soon,” I say. “Say hello to the others.”

“The others?” I hear the tension in her voice.

“Yes. Thelma. Reed. They’re upset about the canceled holiday, aren’t they?”

“Oh… yes, of course. They’re all very upset. But it can’t be helped. Health is more important. Well, Edith, I have to take my medication. Feel better.”

I hang up the phone and look out the window at the darkening sky. Well, now I have confirmation. They’re planning dinner without me. They haven’t even bothered to come up with a plausible lie.

I pull out of my closet the dark blue dress I haven’t worn since George’s funeral. I try it on in front of the mirror. It still fits well, even though I’ve lost weight over the years. If my children think they can just cut me out of their lives, they’re sorely mistaken. Edith Thornberry hasn’t said her last word yet. And tomorrow night promises to be interesting. Very interesting.

I’ve been up all night. Not because of the pain in my joints, although that was there. Not because of the insomnia that often afflicts people my age. I was awake because the thoughts of the day ahead kept me awake. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the faces of my children gathered around the holiday table without me—laughing, raising their glasses, telling each other how lucky they were to be rid of their old mother for the evening.

Friday morning was overcast. Heavy clouds hung over Blue Springs as if reflecting my mood. I made tea, but it went cold, untouched. I didn’t feel like eating. Something inside me seemed frozen, waiting for a decision I hadn’t made yet. What would I do tonight? Would I stay home like my children had planned, or—

My gaze falls on George’s picture on the mantelpiece. He looks at me with a slight smile, tilting his head to the side, a gesture that always meant he had something important to say.

“What would you do, George?” I mentally ask him.

And I can almost hear the answer. Don’t let them trample on your dignity, Edith. You deserve better than that.

The phone rings, snapping me out of my musings. It’s Wesley.

“Mom, good morning.” His voice sounds suspiciously cheerful. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” I answer. “How’s Cora? Is she better?”

There’s a pause. I can almost see him frantically recalling last night’s lie.

“No, she’s the same. She’s lying down with a fever. The doctor said it might be a while.”

“That’s a shame,” I say with fake sympathy. “I was thinking of baking her a chicken pot pie and bringing it over. Nothing like a home-cooked meal for a cold.”

“No, no, you don’t have to,” Wesley answers hastily. “We have everything, really. I’m just calling to see if you need anything. Maybe you’re out of medication.”

Oh, that’s it. Checking to see if I’m going out tonight, making sure I stay home while they celebrate without me.

“Thanks, son. I’ve got everything,” I reply. “I’m going to spend the evening reading. I’ve been wanting to reread Agatha Christie for ages.”

“That’s a great idea,” Wesley says with obvious relief. “Okay, Mom. I have to go to work. If you need anything, call me.”

I hang up the phone and look at my watch. Ten in the morning. There’s still plenty of time before dinner tonight—time to think about how things had gotten to this point. When had things changed? When did my children stop considering me? When did I go from being a mother to being a burden?

Maybe it started after George died. Wesley and Thelma used to come every day—help with the funeral, the paperwork. But then their visits became less and less frequent. First once a week, then once a month. Thelma was always in a hurry, always looking at her watch. Wesley came more often, but his visits usually coincided with requests for money.

“Mom, it’s Cora’s birthday. I want to get her a necklace, but we’re tight on money this month.”

“Mom, we have a leaky roof. We need repairs right away, but all the money went to pay for Reed’s college.”

“Mom, I’ve invested in a promising project, but we need to reborrow for now.”

I always gave. Not because I believed his stories—they’d gotten less and less believable over the years—but because I wanted to feel that they needed me, at least that way. That they’d come to me, even if only for money.

I pull an old notebook out of the closet where I’ve written down all of Wesley’s loans. Over fifteen years, it has accumulated a sizable sum—money he’ll never pay back, and we both know it.

It’s different with Thelma. She doesn’t ask for money directly, but every time I go to her flower store, she insists I buy the most expensive bouquet. “Mom, you don’t want people to think I can’t provide my mother with decent flowers, do you?” And I buy—every time.

Then there was the case of the medication. Six months ago, the doctor prescribed me new blood pressure pills. Expensive, but effective. Wesley made a big fuss about it.

“Mom, are you crazy? Four hundred dollars a month for pills? That’s ruin. Let’s look for cheaper alternatives.”

I tried to explain that other medications don’t work for me, that I can be allergic, but he wouldn’t listen. Thelma backed him up. “Mom, you have to be more frugal. We all have expenses.” And this from people who changed their cell phones every year, who went on vacation to the Bahamas and bragged about their new car.

My thoughts are interrupted by the doorbell. Audrey, Reed’s girlfriend, stands on the doorstep—a sweet, shy girl with a lock of red hair and freckles.

“Hello, Mrs. Thornberry.” She fidgets nervously with the strap of her bag. “Reed said he might have left his notebook here.”

“Yes, dear. Come in.” I let her in. “I was just going to look for it. Would you like some tea?”

While I make tea, Audrey looks around the living room at the pictures.

“Is that Reed as a child?” she asks, pointing to a picture of a five-year-old boy holding a fishing rod.

“Yes, his first fishing trip with his grandfather,” I smile, handing her a cup. “He caught such a tiny little fish, but he was as proud as if it were a shark.”

Audrey laughs, and for a moment, the house feels young and alive again.

“Mrs. Thornberry,” she says suddenly, “Reed is very fond of you. He talks about you all the time—about your stories, about how you taught him how to bake pies.”

I feel tears coming to my eyes, but I hold them back. “He’s a good boy. The only one who—” I hesitate, not wanting to speak ill of my children in front of a stranger. “He looks a lot like his grandfather.”

Audrey helps me find Reed’s notebook. It turns out to be under the couch cushion. As she’s leaving, she suddenly turns around in the doorway.

“I’ll see you tonight. Reed said you’d be at Willow Creek, too.”

I smile, strained. “We’ll see. I have a bit of a headache. I’m not sure I can go.”

After Audrey leaves, I stand at the window for a long time, watching her get into her car and drive away. Sweet girl. Sincere. She has no idea that I wasn’t invited to the family reunion—that my own son lied to me so I wouldn’t come.

The decision comes suddenly. I look at my watch. It’s almost two in the afternoon. Dinner is still five hours away—plenty of time to get ready. I pull out the dark blue dress I tried on yesterday. It still fits well, even though I’ve lost weight over the years. The low-heeled shoes I wore at Thelma’s wedding. The pearl necklace George gave me for our thirtieth anniversary.

I’m not going to sit at home and feel sorry for myself. I want to see for myself how my children celebrate without me. I want to make sure it isn’t a misunderstanding, but a conscious choice on their part.

At five, I hail a cab. The driver, a young guy with tattoos on his arms, looks at me in surprise when I give him the address.

“Willow Creek? Really, Grandma? That’s where the prices are.”

“I know the prices, young man,” I say firmly. “And I’m not your grandmother.”

He shrugs and doesn’t ask any more questions. I stare out the window the whole way, watching the streets of Blue Springs change—from my humble neighborhood of small houses to downtown with its modern glass and concrete buildings. Willow Creek is on the outskirts, in a picturesque spot by the river.

It’s starting to get dark when the cab pulls up to the restaurant. I ask the driver not to pull right up to the entrance, but to stop a little to the side.

“Wait for me here, please,” I say, handing him the money. “I won’t be long.”

Willow Creek is the most expensive and prestigious restaurant in Blue Springs—a two-story red brick building buried in greenery with a terrace overlooking the river. Only special occasions are celebrated here—anniversaries, engagements, important business deals.

I don’t go to the entrance. Instead, I walk around to the side of the building where the parking lot is for guests. I see their cars right away—Wesley’s silver Lexus, Thelma’s red Ford, Reed’s old Honda. They’re all here. All of them except me.

The pain of the realization is so sharp it takes my breath away for a moment. This isn’t a mistake, not a misunderstanding. They really decided to celebrate without me. Lied to me to keep me home.

I walk slowly to the windows of the restaurant. The curtains don’t show what’s going on inside, but one side of the curtain isn’t fully drawn, leaving a narrow gap. I stand in the shade of the trees, watching my family through that gap.

They’re sitting at a large round table in the center of the room. Wesley at the head of the table, Cora next to him—healthy, smiling, without the slightest sign of illness. Thelma and her husband. Reed and Audrey. A few other people I don’t know—apparently friends of Wesley and Cora. They’re laughing. They’re raising champagne glasses. They’re enjoying the evening, oblivious to me.

The waiter brings out a huge seafood platter, then another with an elaborate meat course. On the table are bottles of expensive wine. I know the prices at this restaurant—one dinner like this costs as much as a month’s rent for an apartment.

“We’re tight on money, Mom. Could you help with the bills?”

“Mom, these medications are too expensive. Let’s look for something cheaper.”

All this time they’ve been lying to me—pretending they were barely making ends meet, begging me for money for emergencies while they spent hundreds of dollars on restaurants, travel, new cars.

I watch Wesley raise his glass in a toast. Everyone laughs, applauds. Cora kisses him on the cheek. Thelma adds something—laughter again. I suddenly remember how last year I asked Wesley to help fix a leaky roof. He said he couldn’t right now, that he was having financial difficulties. I waited three months until the roof started leaking so badly that I had to put buckets under it. I ended up hiring a handyman myself, giving almost all of my savings. And when I had a mild heart attack last winter, Thelma couldn’t come to the hospital because she had an important order at the store. Reed sat up with me all night, holding my hand. And now they’re all together—merry, happy—celebrating without me. It’s like I’m not even alive anymore.

I notice Reed looking around, as if he’s looking for someone. Then he leans over to Audrey, asking something. She shakes her head. They talk. A concerned expression appears on Reed’s face. He pulls out his phone, looks at the screen, then puts it back in his pocket.

At that minute, the waiter brings out a huge cake with candles. Everyone claps, laughs. Wesley puts his arm around Cora. They kiss. Thirty years together. And they hadn’t found a place at the table for the woman who gave birth to and raised Wesley.

A tear runs down my cheek. I brush it away with an irritated gesture. Now is not the time for tears. Now is the time for decisions.

Stepping away from the window, I walk slowly toward the entrance to the restaurant. A young man in a uniform stands at the door—the maître d’.

“Good evening, ma’am,” he says politely. “Do you have a reservation?”

“I’m here to see the Thornberry family,” I answer. “They’re celebrating their wedding anniversary.”

He checks the list on his clipboard. “Yes, they’re in the main hall. Are you—” He hesitates, looking at me questioningly.

“I’m Wesley Thornberry’s mother,” I say firmly. “Edith Thornberry.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Thornberry.” He becomes more respectful at once. “Please, come in. Your family is already here.”

My family, I think bitterly as I enter the restaurant’s spacious lobby. The family that doesn’t want to see me. A family that lies to my face. But in just a moment, they will see me. And it’s a night they will remember for a long time. Because Edith Thornberry is not the kind of woman you can just throw out of your life like an old unwanted thing. It’s time my children realize that.

I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and stride toward the main hall doors. The music, the laughter, the clinking of glasses, the sounds of merriment reach even through the heavy oak doors. Just one step and I’ll ruin their perfect evening. Should I do it? Should I turn around and walk away with what little dignity I have left?

But something inside me—some steel thread running through my life—won’t let me do it. I’m not one to back down. I never have been. Even when George died, leaving me alone with huge medical bills, I didn’t give up. I didn’t ask my kids for help, even though I could have. I did it on my own. I can handle it now.

But I’m not going to burst in there like a fury. No, that would be too easy and predictable. I want this evening to be a lesson to them. A lesson they will never forget.

“Mrs. Thornberry.”

A voice behind me makes me flinch. I turn around. Standing in front of me is a tall man in his sixties with a neatly trimmed gray beard and attentive gray eyes. He wears an impeccably tailored dark suit with a small gold pin in the shape of a willow branch, the restaurant’s symbol.

“Lewis?” I can’t believe my eyes. “Lewis Quinlan. In person?”

He smiles, bowing slightly. “I’m glad to see you remember me.”

“How could I forget?” Lewis Quinlan is a Blue Springs legend, a former chef who opened the most successful restaurant in town. But to me, he’ll always be the shy boy across the street who came over to borrow books and eat my blueberry pies.

“You haven’t changed at all,” I say, though it isn’t true. The boy has grown into an imposing man. Time has left marks on his face, but his eyes—his eyes are the same.

“But you, Edith, have become even more beautiful,” he replies with that special gallantry that doesn’t look false. “Blue has always been your color.”

I touch the pearl necklace involuntarily. For the first time all evening, I don’t feel like an angry old woman, but just a woman.

“Are you alone?” Lewis asks, glancing around the hall. “I thought you were coming with your son and his family. They’re celebrating their anniversary today, aren’t they?”

“Oh, so you know about that?” I ask, trying to keep my voice casual.

“Of course. I was personally involved in organizing their party. Thirty years is a big deal. I wanted it to be perfect.”

A lump rises in my throat. Lewis must notice the change in my face because his smile is replaced by a look of concern.

“Is something wrong, Edith?”

I want to lie—to say that nothing is wrong, that I’m just late—but somehow I can’t. There are too many lies in this story already.

“I wasn’t invited, Lewis,” I say quietly. “My son told me the dinner had been canceled because his wife was ill. But I found out the truth by accident.”

There’s such genuine indignation on Lewis’s face that I feel a surge of gratitude.

“There must be some mistake,” he says firmly. “There must be a misunderstanding. Wesley couldn’t—”

“He could,” I interrupt. “And he did. I’ve seen them through the window. They’re having a great time without me.”

Lewis frowns, his eyes darkening. “This is unacceptable,” he says in a tone that brooks no objection. “Absolutely unacceptable.” He offers me his hand. “Let me show you in, Edith. The mother of the guest of honor should not stand in the hall.”

I hesitate. It’s one thing to have a confrontation and quite another to drag a stranger into it.

“Lewis, I don’t want to cause problems for your restaurant.”

“The only problem here is their lack of respect for their mother,” he cuts me off. “My restaurant is not a place where I would allow that. If I may?”

He offers me his hand again, and this time I take it. His touch is warm and sure, like an anchor in a stormy sea.

“How do you want to do this?” Lewis asks when we stop at the hall door. “Just walk in, or I could organize something special?”

I hesitate. I don’t feel like making a scene. I don’t feel like yelling or crying or blaming. That would be too easy. They probably think that if I find out the truth, I’ll either burst into tears or cause a scandal. Either way, they can accuse me of inadequacy, of senile hysteria.

“No,” I say. “I won’t give them that pleasure. I want to go in quietly—like the honored guest I was supposed to be. No announcements, no fanfare. Just show up.”

Lewis nods understandingly. “The perfect choice. Elegance is always more effective than drama.” He squeezes my hand lightly. “Ready?”

I take a deep breath and nod. “Ready.”

Lewis opens the doors and we enter the hall.

The first thing I notice is the abundance of flowers—white and cream roses, lilies, orchids. They are everywhere. In tall vases on the tables, in garlands on the walls, even coming down from the ceiling, giving the impression of a blooming garden. The soft light of the crystal chandeliers reflects in the silverware and crystal, creating an almost magical atmosphere.

My family’s table is in the center of the room. It is round, decorated especially lavishly, with a multi-tier cake in the middle. Wesley sits at the head wearing a dark gray suit I’ve never seen before. Next to him is Cora in an elegant burgundy dress with a new necklace around her neck—apparently an anniversary gift. Thelma and her husband. Reed and Audrey. A few other people I don’t know.

They don’t notice us right away. They are too caught up in the toast Wesley is giving—something about love overcoming all odds, about family values and mutual support. Lewis leads me straight to their table. We walk slowly, with dignity. I can feel the stares of other diners, but I pay no attention to them. All my attention is on my family.

Reed notices me first. His eyes widen in surprise, and he jerks as if he wants to get up, but something stops him. Then Audrey, who is sitting next to him. She turns pale and tugs on Reed’s sleeve. Wesley is still talking, not noticing the change in the atmosphere. Then Thelma looks up and her hand holding her glass freezes halfway. One by one, they notice me. Their faces change—surprise, confusion, and then fear. Yes, fear. They’re afraid of a scene, of a scandal, of being embarrassed in front of the other guests.

Finally, Wesley, sensing the tension, turns around.

“And that’s why I want to say—” His voice trails off when he sees me.

Lewis steps forward. “I apologize for the intrusion, Mr. Thornberry.” His voice is impeccably polite, but with a note of steel. “It seems your mother was a little late for the celebration. I took the liberty of escorting her to your table.”

There is silence—so thick you could touch it. All eyes are on us.

“Mom,” Wesley finally squeezes out. His face is as white as a tablecloth. “But you— you said you’d stay home.”

“I changed my mind,” I say calmly. “I decided I wanted to congratulate my son and daughter-in-law on thirty years of marriage. It’s an important date.”

Lewis pulls a chair back for me between Reed and a middle-aged woman I don’t recognize—apparently one of Cora’s friends.

“Thank you, Lewis,” I say, sitting down. “You’ve always been so attentive.”

“Always at your service, Edith,” he says with a slight bow. Then he turns to the others. “I’ll have another appetizer brought in and perhaps a bottle of our best champagne—on the house, of course.”

With these words, he departs, leaving us in a heavy silence.

Wesley is the first to come to his senses.

“Mom,” he begins, his voice sounding falsely happy, “what a surprise! We thought you weren’t feeling well.”

“I feel fine,” I answer, looking him straight in the eye. “Cora, on the other hand, seems to have recovered quickly. Even this morning, she had such a high fever.”

Cora blushes and lowers her eyes. She has always been a bad actress.

“Yeah, I was better by lunchtime,” she murmurs. “Miraculously.”

“Truly a miracle,” I nod. “Especially since Doris Simmons saw you at the supermarket yesterday, perfectly healthy.”

Thelma sets her glass down sharply on the table.

“Mom,” her voice is taut as a string, “maybe we shouldn’t—”

“Don’t, dear.” I turn to her. “Tell the truth. You always taught your brother that lying is wrong. Remember?”

A waiter comes to the table with an extra plate and a bottle of champagne. As he sets out plates and glasses, everyone remains silent, smiling strainedly. The perfect family. People who love each other. What a falsity.

“Grandma,” Reed says quietly, leaning toward me as the waiter steps away. “I didn’t know. I thought you knew about dinner.”

“I know, honey,” I reply just as quietly, squeezing his hand under the table. “It’s not your fault.”

Wesley coughs, drawing everyone’s attention.

“Well, now that we’re all here”—he emphasizes the word all with a faint note of irritation—“let’s get on with the party. Mom, you’re just in time for dessert.”

He signals to the waiter, and they begin to cut the cake—huge, tiered, with a bride and groom on top. It must have cost a fortune.

“What a beautiful cake,” I say, taking the plate with a slice. “Must be expensive.”

“Not at all, Mom,” Wesley says too quickly. “It’s not expensive at all. It’s just a small family party. Nothing fancy.”

I look around at the table with exquisite dishes, crystal glasses, floral arrangements. “Yes, I can see how modest it is,” I nod. “And how many guests? And here I was thinking you were having financial difficulties. Isn’t that why you asked me for two thousand dollars last month—for car repairs, if I’m not mistaken?”

One of the guests coughs. The woman next to me—the same friend of Cora—looks at Wesley curiously.

“Mom,” he grits through his teeth, trying to keep a smile on his face, “can’t we discuss this later in the family circle?”

“Aren’t we in a family circle?” I ask, genuinely surprised. “Or am I no longer considered part of the family? I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t get the memo.”

“Of course you’re part of the family,” Thelma interjects. Her voice sounds too loud, too falsely cheerful. “It’s just that we thought it would be tiring for you. At your age—the late dinner, the noise—”

“At my age,” I repeat slowly. “Yes. Of course. My age. Interesting that it didn’t stop me from watching your cats last month while you went on a spa weekend. Or helping Wesley with his tax returns. Or lending him the two thousand he never paid back.”

Silence again. Wesley nervously fiddles with his cufflink, avoiding my gaze. Cora is suddenly interested in the pattern on the tablecloth.

“I wanted to invite you, Mom,” Wesley says finally, feigning remorse. “I just didn’t think you’d be comfortable. You don’t like noisy gatherings, do you?”

“I don’t like noisy gatherings?” I interject. “That’s odd. Who threw the family Christmas dinner every year? Who organized a backyard barbecue for the whole neighborhood? Who gathered guests for your father’s birthday, even when he was already in the hospital?”

Wesley is silent. He has nothing to say.

“It’s not because of my age or because I don’t like loud gatherings,” I continue in a quiet but firm voice. “It’s that you didn’t want to see me. It was easier to lie than to invite your own mother.”

“Mom, that’s not true,” Thelma begins.

I hold up my hand to stop her. “I’m not finished, dear. I didn’t come here to make a scene. I didn’t come here to ruin your party. I came here to understand.”

I look around at their faces—tense, confused, scared. “I want to understand when my children turned into people who could lie to their mother’s face—who could exclude her from a family celebration like some kind of…” I hesitate for a moment, searching for a word. “Like some inconvenient obligation.”

“Grandma,” Reed says quietly. “I didn’t realize they hadn’t invited you. I swear I thought you were just running late.”

I put my hand on his shoulder. “I know, sweetheart. This has nothing to do with you.”

At that moment, Lewis comes to the table with a bottle of champagne.

“I hope everyone is enjoying the evening,” he says, though it’s clear from his face that he can feel the tension at the table.

“Everything is just fine, Lewis,” I reply with a genuine smile. “Great restaurant, great service.”

“Always the best for you, Edith.” He fills my glass with champagne. “I remember how your pies saved me as a child from the perpetual hunger of adolescence. No one in Blue Springs bakes like you.”

I feel warmth rush to my cheeks. For the first time all evening, I have a real smile on my face.

“You’ve always been gallant, Lewis. Even when you were a child.”

He smiles back, but his gaze is serious, understanding. Then he turns to Wesley.

“Mr. Thornberry, may I ask why you didn’t list your mother on the guest list? I had some confusion about the seating arrangements.”

Wesley chokes on his champagne. “Yeah, we— it was a misunderstanding,” he mumbles. “Mom was supposed to come, of course. It’s just that this morning she said she wasn’t feeling well.”

“It’s strange,” Lewis goes on nonchalantly. “I thought she said you told her that you had canceled the dinner because of your wife’s illness.”

Cora makes a strange sound—something between a cough and a sob. Thelma stares at her plate as if it contains the answers to all the questions of the universe.

“Apparently there was some kind of misunderstanding,” Wesley says. His face flushes red.

“Apparently,” Lewis agrees dryly. “Well, the important thing is that we’re all here now. Enjoy the evening.” He squeezes my hand again and steps away, leaving us in an even more tense silence than before.

“Mom, I can explain,” Wesley begins. “Cora and I wanted to spend this evening in a small circle—”

“A small circle of fifteen people?” I clarify, looking around the table.

“I mean— without the older generation,” he continues awkwardly. “There’s no Cora’s parents. No—”

“You’re lying,” I say calmly. “Lying again. Cora’s parents died five years ago, and you know it. I was at both funerals. And your brother-in-law’s parents?” I nod toward Thelma’s husband. “I can see them at that table over there. They waved at me as I entered.”

Wesley pales even more, if that’s possible.

“Mom,” Thelma intervenes. “We didn’t mean to offend you. We just thought you might be uncomfortable. You’ve been complaining about your health lately and—”

“We all complain about our health sometimes, dear,” I say. “But usually the people closest to us ask how we’re feeling—not decide for us.”

I sip my champagne. It’s excellent—dry with light notes of citrus and vanilla.

“You know what the saddest part is?” I continue, looking at my kids. “It’s not that you didn’t invite me. It’s that you lied. Instead of honestly saying, ‘Mom, we want to spend this evening without you,’ you made up a story about being sick, made me worry about Cora’s health. I called offering to help.” I shake my head. “I always taught you to be honest—even when the truth is unpleasant, even when it might upset someone. Because lies destroy trust. And without trust, there’s no family.”

“Mom,” Wesley’s voice trembles. “We just—”

“You just didn’t want your old mother to ruin your party,” I finish for him. “I understand. I really do. But you know what? You could have just told me that. I would have understood. Maybe I would have been upset, but I would have understood—because I’ve always respected your right to make decisions, even when I didn’t agree with them.”

I finish my champagne and put my glass on the table.

“But you chose to lie instead. And now that I’m sitting here, I see more than just those lies. I see all the times you’ve lied to me over the years—when you asked for money for emergencies and spent it on entertainment, when you said you couldn’t visit me because of important business and you went out of town for the weekend.”

Wesley tries to say something, but I stop him with a gesture.

“I don’t want to hear excuses, son. I’m just curious: when did you stop respecting your mother?”

The question hangs in the air. Wesley looks at me with the expression of a man caught red-handed. Cora fidgets with her napkin, avoiding my gaze. Thelma looks like she’s ready to sink through the floor.

“Mom,” Wesley whispers, “let’s not make a scene. We can talk about this later in a more appropriate setting.”

“A more appropriate setting?” I feel a cold resolve growing inside—not anger, but resolve. “You mean when there are no witnesses around?”

“I mean when we can all discuss the situation calmly.” His tone becomes condescending, as if he’s talking to a naughty child. “You’re upset—understandably—but this isn’t the time or place.”

“And when is the time and place, Wesley?” I speak softly but firmly. “When you stop by my place for five minutes to ask me for money? Or when Thelma stops by for a cup of tea—glancing at her watch?”

Thelma flinches as if I’ve hit her. “It’s not fair, Mother,” she says in a shaky voice. “I’ve got the store. I’ve got things to do.”

“Everybody has things to do, dear,” I say. “But people usually make time for the ones they love.”

Reed squirms uncomfortably in his chair. Audrey stares at us wide-eyed, clearly feeling out of place.

“Maybe I should leave,” she says quietly, leaning toward Reed.

“No, stay,” I touch her arm gently. “This has nothing to do with you, and I’m not going to make a scene like Wesley’s afraid of.”

I look around the table. The guests seated farther away have already gone back to their conversations, ignoring us. But our part of the table—the kids, their spouses, a few close friends—are all looking at me, waiting for me to continue.

“I just want you to know that I understand,” I say, looking directly at Wesley and Thelma. “I realize that I’ve been a burden to you—an uncomfortable reminder that we’re all getting older. I realize it’s easier to pretend I don’t exist than to admit that one day you’ll be like me.”

“Mom, that’s not true,” Wesley tries to object, but I shake my head.

“Let me finish, son. I’ve been silent for a long time. Now it’s my turn to speak.”

I take a sip of water, gathering my thoughts.

“I know you talk about me behind my back. I know you discuss my deteriorating condition and ‘senile quirks.’ Mrs. Dawson—your neighbor,” I nod toward Wesley and Cora, “happened to mention it when we met at the pharmacy. She was very concerned when she heard you say that I was starting to lose my mind.”

Cora turns pale. “Edith, it wasn’t that. We’re just worried—”

“Don’t bother, dear,” I interrupt gently. “I know the truth. Just like I know that you and Wesley have already been looking at a nursing home for me. Sunny Hills, isn’t it? The administrator there is an old high school friend of yours, if I’m not mistaken.”

Wesley is pale now. He throws a quick glance at Cora as if asking how I could have known about it.

“It was just in case,” he mutters. “We wanted to be ready in case you needed help.”

“Without my knowledge,” I finish for him. “Without a single conversation with me about my wishes, you decided everything for me. As if I were no longer capable of making decisions for myself.”

I turn to Thelma. “And don’t think I don’t know about your conversations with the realtor about my house—about how it might be sold when I’m gone, or when I move to ‘a place where I’ll be taken care of.’”

Thelma blushes. “Mom, I was just wondering about the prices on the real estate market.”

“Of course you were.” I nod. “And the fact that the realtor was looking at my house while I was at the doctor’s office was just a coincidence.”

There is dead silence at the table. Even the outside guests—the ones I don’t know—seem to hold their breath.

“Where did you—” Wesley starts, then stops.

“How do I know?” I finish for him. “I have eyes and ears, son—and neighbors who, unlike my children, care about me. Mrs. Fletcher saw the realtor walking around the house taking pictures. She called me because she was worried.”

I pull a plain white envelope out of my purse and lay it on the table. My kids stare at it like it’s a ticking bomb.

“You know, the sad thing is that you think I’m a helpless old woman who can’t take care of herself.” I tap the envelope. “You think I don’t see your neglect. I don’t notice how you avoid my calls. I don’t realize that your infrequent visits are more of an obligation than a desire.”

“Mom, it’s not like that,” Thelma tries to take my hand, but I pull away.

“It’s exactly like that, dear. And I’ve wondered why for a long time. Why do my children—whom I raised with love, to whom I gave everything I could—treat me like a burden?”

I open the envelope and fan the documents on the linen.

“And I realized it was the house.”
…

“What do you mean the house?” Wesley asks cautiously. “Our family home?”

“Our family home,” I say. “The one you grew up in. The one where every floorboard holds the memory of your childhood. The one you’re so eager to inherit.”

“You’re both just waiting for me to either die or become so helpless that you can stick me in Sunny Hills and take over the house.” I spread the papers out in front of me. “You’ve never asked what I want, what my plans are. You just decided everything for me.”

“Mom, what are you talking about?” Wesley asks nervously. “What are your plans?”

I take the first document and put it on the table in front of them. “I sold the house,” I say simply.

There’s such silence you could hear a pin drop. Wesley freezes with his glass in his hand. Thelma makes a strange sound—something between a sob and a cough.

“What do you mean, sold it?” Wesley finally squeezes out. “You couldn’t. You wouldn’t.”

“But I did,” I answer calmly. “Three days ago. Mr. Jenkins, my lawyer, arranged everything very quickly. The house was bought by a young couple with two children. Lovely people, full of plans and hope. They’re going to breathe new life into it.”

“But— but what about you? Where will you live?” Thelma looks like she’s about to cry.

“Oh, don’t worry about me, dear.” I smile. “I’ve rented a small apartment near the center, near the library. You know how much I love to read.”

“An apartment?” Wesley looks at me as if I’ve told him I’m moving to Mars. “But— the house, it’s our family home. Dad wanted it to stay in the family.”

“Your father wanted me to be happy,” I say firmly. “And for his children to grow up to be good people. One of those wishes I can fulfill.”

I take the second document.

“But as for the money from the sale of the house—” Wesley steps forward, his eyes glittering greedily. Even at a moment like this, all he can think about is money.

“I donated it to build a new wing of the city library,” I finish, showing him the donation document. “It will bear your father’s name. George always loved books. It’s a fitting tribute to him.”

“You what?” Wesley looks at me as if I’m speaking a foreign language. “But— it’s— that’s a lot of money.”

“Yes. Almost half a million dollars,” I nod. “The house was well kept and the neighborhood is very popular with young families.”

“And you just give it away?” Thelma looks stunned. “But, Mom, it could—”

“—secure my future,” I finish for her. “But you already have a future, honey. You have a job. You have houses. You have cars. You have everything you need.”

I glance at Reed, who sits with his head down. He looks upset, but not about the money—about the whole situation.

“I’ve thought about the future, though,” I continue, pulling out a third document. “I changed the will.”

Wesley and Thelma look at each other again, this time with ill-concealed hope. Maybe they think I’ve left them something else—some savings, jewelry, anything.

“Everything I have left—my personal savings, jewelry, belongings—I’m leaving to Reed,” I say, placing a copy of the will on the table. “To the only member of this family who sees me not as a source of inheritance, but as a human being.”

Reed looks up, tears in his eyes. “Grandmother, I don’t want— I don’t need to—”

“I know, sweetheart,” I say softly. “That’s exactly why you’re going to get it. Don’t worry. There isn’t much, but it’s enough to help you get started on your own.”

I turn to the others. Their faces show a gamut of emotions—shock, disbelief, disappointment, anger.

“You thought I didn’t notice how you treated me,” I say quietly. “You thought I was too old and stupid to understand your plans. But I’ve seen it all. All these years. Every time you avoided my calls. Every time you made excuses not to visit me. Every time you lied to my face.”

I put the papers back in the envelope.

“And you know what the saddest part is? I still loved you, no matter what. Because you’re my children. But love doesn’t mean you have to let others violate your dignity. That’s what your father taught me, and that’s what I’ve tried to teach you.”

Wesley is the first to regain his speech. “Mom, this is— this is crazy.” He tries to keep his voice low, but there’s panic in it. “You can’t just— just take everything away from us because of one misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding?” I look at him with genuine surprise. “You consider years of neglect a misunderstanding? Lying about tonight is a misunderstanding. Talking behind my back about my supposed dementia is also a misunderstanding?”

“Mom, we were worried about you,” Thelma interjects. Her voice trembles, but her eyes remain dry. “You live alone in a big house. It’s hard for you to take care of it.”

“And that’s why you decided to sell it without asking me,” I interrupt. “Anxiety looks different, dear. Worry is when you call every day to see how I’m doing. When you offer to help instead of waiting for me to become so helpless that you can run my life.”

Cora, who has been silent until now, suddenly speaks up. “Edith, you’re being unfair. We have always treated you with respect. Always cared.”

“Have you?” I turn to her. “Then why, when I needed money for medication that wasn’t covered by insurance, did Wesley say you were having financial difficulties? And then a week later, you flew to the Bahamas?”

Cora blushes and lowers her eyes. “It was a planned vacation,” she mumbles. “We couldn’t cancel.”

“Of course,” I nod. “Vacations are more important than an old mother’s health. I understand.”

I get up from the table, gathering my purse.

“Well, I won’t spoil your holiday with my presence anymore. I’ve said all I have to say.”

“You’re leaving?” Thelma looks confused. “But— but what about the—”

“The what? The money?” I finish for her. “It’s gone, dear. Not the house, not the savings you’ve been waiting for. There’s only me—your mother—who has finally decided to live for herself instead of waiting for you to find five minutes in your schedule to visit me.”

Reed jumps to his feet. “I’ll walk you out, Grandma.”

“Thank you, sweetheart, but you don’t have to.” I touch his shoulder gently. “Stay. Finish your dinner. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I turn to the others. “And with you— maybe not. It’s up to you.”

I head for the exit, feeling the stares of not only my family, but the other diners as well. But I don’t care. For the first time in years, I feel free—free from expectations, from disappointment, from the endless waiting for attention and care that will never come.

Lewis is waiting for me at the exit.

“Leaving, Edith?” he asks, with a slight sadness in his voice. “Not because of the quality of the service, I hope.”

“The service was excellent, Lewis,” I reply sincerely. “As it always is with you. It’s just that I have to go home.”

“Let me call you a cab,” he offers as he walks me out.

“I’d appreciate it.”

While we wait for the cab, Lewis looks at me carefully.

“Tense atmosphere at your table.”

“Family matters,” I smile weakly.

“Sometimes the truth is bitter, but necessary,” he nods.

“Like bitter medicine?”

“Exactly.”

The cab pulls up and Lewis gallantly opens the door for me.

“You know, Edith, I’ve always admired you,” he says suddenly. “When I was a boy, you were always so real. No pretenses, no falsehoods.”

“Thank you, Lewis.” I’m touched by his words. “It means a lot to me.”

“I heard about the project for the new wing of the library,” he adds. “It’s a wonderful idea. George would be proud.”

I freeze halfway into the cab. “You know about it?”

“Blue Springs is a small town, Edith,” he smiles softly. “Everybody knows everything here—especially when it comes to such a generous donation.”

I nod, oddly relieved that the news has already spread. There’s no turning back now.

“It’s the right thing to do,” I say, getting into the cab. “The only right decision.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Lewis says seriously. “And, Edith—if you ever want to talk or have a cup of tea, my door is always open to you.”

“I’ll remember that,” I promise.

As the cab pulls away, I don’t look back at the restaurant. I don’t want to see whether my children come out to say goodbye or stay inside discussing what happened. In the end, it doesn’t matter anymore. I did what I should have done a long time ago. I regained control of my life. And though my heart is heavy with the realization of what my children have grown up to be, I feel strangely relieved, as if I’ve gotten rid of a heavy weight I’d been carrying for years.

The cab turns the corner and the Willow Creek restaurant disappears from view—the part of my life that I’d let others decide for me, the part where I waited for attention and love from those who couldn’t or wouldn’t give it.

The spring sun peeks through the windows of my new apartment, filling it with warmth and light. I sit in an armchair with a cup of morning tea, watching the city come to life. From the third floor, I have a beautiful view of Blue Springs’ Central Square with its neat flower beds and ancient fountain. Across the street is the city library building—my new second home.

It has been three months since that night at the Willow Creek restaurant. Three months since I turned the page on my life and started writing a new chapter. Change isn’t easy. I lived in the same house my whole life—every corner holding memories. But in a strange way, this small apartment with its light walls and minimal belongings gives me a sense of freedom I haven’t felt in years.

The ringing of the phone interrupts my thoughts. I glance at the screen. Wesley—the fourth call this week. I put the phone away without answering. Let him leave a message if it’s really important.

After that night at the restaurant, it was as if my kids woke up. Suddenly, they remembered I existed. At first there were angry phone calls. How could I do this? Sell the house? Disinherit them? Then, when they realized anger wasn’t working, they started trying to ingratiate themselves. Wesley would arrive with flowers and a guilty look, talking about the misunderstanding and how much they really loved me. Thelma called every day, offering to help me set up my new apartment, inviting me to lunch. Even Cora sent a fruit basket and an apology card.

I didn’t reject their attempts at reconciliation outright. I just kept my distance. I accepted the gifts with a polite smile, but I wasn’t in a hurry to reestablish the old relationship. They had to realize that trust, once broken, doesn’t magically rebuild itself. Besides, I understood all too well the real reason for their sudden concern. They hoped that I hadn’t yet had time to dispose of the money from the sale of the house—that maybe the donation to the library was just a threat. Wesley even cautiously wondered if I’d been too hasty in my decision to make such a large donation. And when I confirmed that the deal was finalized and the money had already been deposited into the library’s account, his face changed as if a mask had fallen. For a moment, I saw the real Wesley—the calculating, money‑minded one.

The phone rings again. This time, it’s Reed.

“Good morning, Grandma.” His voice sounds cheerful despite the early hour. “How are you today?”

“Good morning, honey.” I smile involuntarily. “Beautiful as always. I’m admiring the view from the window and thinking about the day ahead. Did you remember that today is the opening of the new wing of the library?”

“I could never forget.” I can hear the excitement in his voice. “I’ll pick you up at three, like we agreed.”

“Of course I remembered.” I glance at the dress I’ve prepared for the ceremony—dark blue with a light silver pattern. Everything is ready.

After a brief conversation with Reed, I go back to my tea. The opening of the new wing of the library is an important event for me. The George Thornberry Wing—that’s what it will be called. A place where children will be able to discover the world of books as George once did. He would be happy knowing that his name is associated with something so meaningful.

Finished with my tea, I begin to get ready for my morning shift at the library. Three times a week, I volunteer there, helping out in the children’s department. I read fairy tales to the kids, help schoolchildren with book selection, and sometimes just talk to teenagers who come to the library not so much for books as for the silence and understanding they lack at home. This work gives me a sense of being needed that I was deprived of for so long. The children look at me not as a burden, not as a source of inheritance, but as a person who can give them something—knowledge, attention, kindness.

On my way to the library, I meet Martha Finch, my new friend and neighbor—an energetic widow in her seventies, a former math teacher. She’s one of the people who helped me settle into my new place.

“Edith,” she waves at me. “I’m going to the bakery for fresh bread. Do you want me to bring you anything?”

“Thank you, Martha. I’m fine,” I smile. “I have a big day today, and I’ll have lunch in town after the opening ceremony.”

“Oh yes—today is the opening of your George Wing.” She nods. “That’s very good of you, Edith. Such a generous donation. Such a tribute to your husband.”

I thank her and continue on my way to the library.

After that night at the restaurant, news of my donation spread quickly through Blue Springs. People’s reactions varied. Some thought I was a heroine. Some thought I was a crazy old woman who had disinherited her own children. But I didn’t care. I knew I’d done the right thing.

At the library, preparations for the opening ceremony are already in full swing. Workers set up the stage in front of the new wing. Volunteers hang garlands and arrange chairs. Miss Prentice, the head librarian, runs between them, dispensing instructions with an energy surprising for a woman of her age.

“Edith,” she exclaims when she sees me. “How good of you to come. We need help with the books for the new shelves. Can you select the children’s books that you think should be displayed first?”

I happily agree. I spend the next few hours going through books—ranging from classic fairy tales to contemporary stories. Each one I evaluate in terms of what will appeal to children of different ages. It’s an enjoyable job, reminding me of the times I used to read to Wesley and Thelma before bedtime.

Memories of the children no longer cause such acute pain as they used to. I accept the situation for what it is. They didn’t grow up to be what I wanted them to be, but they are my children, and I still love them. It’s just that now that love is more detached—without illusions or expectations.

At noon, I return home to rest before the ceremony. Walking into the apartment, I see the blinking indicator for new messages on my answering machine.

The first one is from Wesley. “Mom, it’s me. I wanted to tell you that Cora and I are coming to the library opening tonight. I know you didn’t invite us, but it’s a community event and we— we want to support you. Please call me back if you get this message.”

The second message is from Thelma. “Mom, I’m calling to say I can’t make it to the ceremony today. I have an emergency order at the store. I need to get the flowers ready for a wedding. I know it’s a big day for you and I’m very sorry. I’ll call you tonight to see how it went.”

I grin. Some things don’t change. Wesley probably hopes that his presence at the ceremony will somehow soften me up. Perhaps he still thinks he can convince me to change my mind about the inheritance. And Thelma—as usual—finds a reason not to come. “Rush order” is an old excuse she’s used for years.

After a light lunch, I start getting ready for the ceremony. I shower, style my hair, and put on the same dark blue dress and pearl necklace—George’s gift. Finishing, I sit down to rest before Reed arrives. My gaze falls on the picture of George on the dresser, the only one I took from the old house. It shows him as I loved him best—laughing, with a light streak in his hair and wrinkles around his eyes from frequent smiles.

“What would you say if you saw me now, George?” I ask him in my mind. “Would you approve of my decisions?” And I can almost hear his answer: You are living for yourself at last, Edith. Of course I approve.

The doorbell heralds Reed’s arrival. He looks excited and happy, wearing a suit that makes him look even more like his grandfather.

“Grandma, you look amazing,” he exclaims, kissing me on the cheek. “Are you ready for your finest hour?”

“I don’t think you could call it ‘finest hour,’” I grin, picking up my purse. “But yes, I’m ready.”

On the way to the library, Reed talks about his schoolwork, his plans for the summer, how he and Audrey are thinking of taking a little trip down the coast.

“Wouldn’t you like to come with us, Grandma?” he suddenly asks. “It would be great. Quiet beaches, small coastal towns, great food.”

“Honey, you’re a young couple,” I smile. “You don’t need an old grandmother as a third wheel.”

“You’ll never be a third wheel,” Reed says seriously. “Not for me. Not for Audrey. She really wants you to go, too, by the way. She says you tell the most interesting stories.”

I’m touched. Perhaps I could really go with them for a few days. It would be a new experience—traveling without commitment, without having to take care of anyone, just for fun.

“I’ll think about it,” I promise. “In the meantime, let’s focus on today.”

When we arrive at the library, the square in front of it is already filled with people. The white chairs arranged in rows in front of the makeshift stage are almost all occupied. The new wing, built of light-colored brick and glass, gleams in the afternoon sun. Above the entrance hangs a golden plaque, still covered with cloth: The George Thornberry Wing.

Miss Prentice meets us at the entrance, glowing with excitement.

“Edith, at last. We’ve been expecting you. Your place is in the front row, of course—and for your grandson, too.”

She leads us to the seats for the guests of honor. I spot Wesley and Cora in the crowd, standing off to the side, looking around uncertainly. When Wesley sees me, he waves and starts making his way toward us. I nod back but don’t linger, following Miss Prentice.

As I sit down, I look around at the crowd—many familiar faces, neighbors from the old neighborhood, new friends from the house where I now live, parents of the kids I work with at the library, and among them, Lewis Quinlan in an elegant light gray suit. Noticing my gaze, he nods slightly and smiles.

After that evening at the restaurant, we saw each other several times. He stopped by the library—seemingly by chance—when I was working there. He invited me for a cup of coffee and asked me how I was settling in at my new place. In his company, I felt not like an old widow, but just a woman—an interesting conversationalist.

The ceremony begins with the mayor’s speech, a standard speech about the importance of education and culture for small towns. Miss Prentice then speaks, talking about how long the library has needed expansion and how my donation made it possible.

“And now I would like to invite to the stage the woman who has brought us all here,” she announces. “Mrs. Edith Thornberry.”

To a round of applause, I take the stage. I have never liked public speaking, but today I feel strangely calm. I know what I have to say, and I know they’re the right words.

“Good afternoon, friends,” I begin as the applause dies down. “I am not a great master of speeches, so I will be brief. This wing is named in honor of my husband, George Thornberry—a man who loved two things more than anything: his family and books.”

I pause, looking at the people gathered.

“Books open doors to other worlds. They teach us to empathize, to think, to dream. They help us realize that we are not alone in our feelings and thoughts. George believed in the power of books. He read to our children every night, even though he was tired after work. He believed that a good book could change a child’s life.”

I see Wesley and Cora squeeze closer to the stage. Wesley’s face is tense, as if he expects me to say something unpleasant about him.

“My hope is that this new wing will be a place where the children of Blue Springs can find books that will change their lives—where they will learn to love reading the way my George loved it, and where they will realize that the most important things in life are not material possessions, but knowledge, love, and kindness.”

I look right at my children. “Sometimes we forget these simple truths. Sometimes we get too caught up in the pursuit of material things, forgetting what really matters. But it’s never too late to remember. It’s never too late to change your life.”

With those words, I turn to Miss Prentice, letting her know I’m done. The crowd explodes with applause, and I, feeling slightly dizzy, walk down from the stage where Reed is waiting for me.

The next item on the program is the unveiling of George’s nameplate. I’m handed large ceremonial scissors to cut the ribbon. I do so to camera flashes and renewed applause.

After the formal part, a small informal part begins—with champagne, light hors d’oeuvres, and a tour of the new wing. Many people come up to congratulate and thank me. Wesley and Cora are among them.

“Mom, that was impressive,” Wesley says, shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot. “Dad would be proud.”

“Yes, he would have been proud,” I agree. “Especially if he saw his grandson, Reed, helping to organize this event. The way he takes care of his grandmother. George always appreciated family loyalty.”

Wesley flinches, catching the hint. “Mom, I know that we— that what I did was wrong—but we can fix it. Start over.”

“Maybe,” I nod. “But it takes time. And trust. And trust, Wesley, is something you have to earn.”

I see Lewis coming toward us and feel strangely relieved.

“I apologize for interrupting,” he says, arriving. “Edith, Miss Prentice would like you to say a few words to the children who are already exploring the new section.”

“Of course.” I turn to my son. “Excuse me, Wesley. Duty calls.”

Lewis offers me his hand, and I gratefully accept it. We step back, but instead of leading me to Miss Prentice, he heads toward a quiet corner of the garden near the library.

“Miss Prentice wasn’t looking for me, was she?” I ask with a slight smile.

“Guilty,” he admits. “I thought you might need an escape from a tense conversation.”

“Thank you,” I say sincerely. “It’s not easy. They’re my kids—no matter what.”

“I understand,” Lewis nods. “Family relationships are always complicated. But you’re right—trust has to be earned.”

We sit on a bench in the shade of an old oak tree. We have a view of the new wing of the library—the gold plaque with George’s name glistening in the sunlight.

“It’s beautiful,” Lewis says. “The architect did a good job harmonizing the new wing with the old building.”

“Yes, it’s very nice,” I agree. “George would be pleased.”

We’re silent for a while, enjoying the peace and quiet of the little garden despite the noise of the celebration nearby.

“I’ve been thinking,” Lewis says suddenly. “Next weekend, they’re doing King Lear at the town theater. I bought two tickets, but my sister—who was going to go with me—has to leave unexpectedly to visit her daughter. Would you like to keep me company?”

I look at him, surprised by the invitation. There’s something in his eyes—warmth, hope, maybe even a hint of uncertainty—that makes my heartbeat a little faster.

“I’d love to,” I reply, surprised at my own resolve.

Lewis brightens. “Great. I’ll pick you up at six. The play starts at seven, but I thought we could have dinner before then.”

“That sounds wonderful,” I smile, feeling a slight excitement I haven’t felt in years.

We head back to the celebration where Reed is already looking for us.

“Grandma, there you are,” he exclaims. “Miss Prentice wants you to meet the kids from the summer reading club.”

“Coming, honey.” I turn to Lewis. “Duty calls for real this time.”

“Of course,” he bows slightly. “I’ll see you this weekend.”

The next two hours fly by in a whirlwind of meetings, conversations, and pictures. I meet with the kids from the reading club, tell them about George’s favorite books, and promise to read one of them at the next class. I answer questions from the local newspaper, who wants to do an article about the opening. I listen to the many thanks from parents whose children will be using the new wing.

Finally, when the ceremony comes to an end and most of the guests have dispersed, Reed and I get into his car to head home.

“It was a beautiful day,” he says as he starts the engine. “You did good, Grandma.”

“Thanks, honey.” I feel pleasantly tired. “Yes, it was a special day.”

“I saw you talking to Mr. Quinlan.” Reed gives me a sly look. “You two seem to get along well, don’t you?”

I feel warmth rush to my cheeks. “He’s an interesting person to talk to,” I say evasively.

“Is that all?” Reed is clearly enjoying my embarrassment. “I thought there was something between you two.”

“Don’t be silly,” I shake my head, but I can’t hold back a smile. “At my age, I’m not looking for romance anymore.”

“Why not?” Reed objects. “Age is no barrier to happiness. And I’ve seen the way he looks at you—the same way I look at Audrey.”

I don’t answer, but his words make me think. Is age really a handicap? Haven’t I proven to myself in these three months that life can begin again at any moment if I put my mind to it?

As we pull up to my building, I notice a familiar car parked nearby—Thelma. She’s sitting on a bench by the door, obviously waiting for me.

“Mommy.” She gets up when she sees us. “I’m so glad I made it. My order ran out sooner than I thought, so I decided to come. I didn’t want to miss the big day.”

She’s holding a bouquet— not store‑bought, but personally made. I can tell by the way she’s put it together, the way her work is always distinctive.

“Thank you, dear.” I accept the flowers. “They’re beautiful.”

“May I come in?” There’s an uncertainty in her voice I haven’t noticed before. “If you’re not too tired, of course.”

I look at my daughter—at her tense face, at the way she’s nervously rubbing the strap of her bag. Maybe she really is sorry for what happened. Maybe she’s trying to change.

“Sure, come on in.” I open the front door. “Reed, are you coming in, too?”

“No, Grandma. I have a meeting with Audrey.” He kisses my cheek. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Thelma and I go up to the apartment. She looks around with obvious interest. It’s her first visit here. I can see the surprise on her face. She probably expected something more modest—not a bright, spacious apartment with new furniture and a nice view from the windows.

“It’s very nice,” she says at last. “It’s cozy.”

“Thank you.” I put the bouquet in a vase. “Tea? Coffee?”

“Tea, if I may.”

While I make tea, Thelma looks at the pictures on the walls— a few old ones from the old house and many new ones of me with the kids at the library, with new friends, with Reed and Audrey on a picnic.

“You have a busy life,” she remarks when I return with the tray. “I didn’t realize you were so active.”

“A lot of people didn’t realize it,” I say, pouring tea into cups. “Including myself.”

We sit at a small table by the window. Thelma is clearly nervous, not knowing where to start.

“The ceremony was beautiful,” she says finally. “Wesley called me, told me. He was impressed.”

“Thank you.” I sip my tea. “I’m glad it went well.”

“Mom.” Thelma takes a deep breath. “I owe you an apology. For that night at the restaurant. For all these years— we— I did wrong.”

I stare at her in silence, waiting for her to continue.

“I don’t know how things got this way,” she says, staring into her cup. “We were close once, and then— everyday life, the worries, the store— it all seemed to come between us. I forgot that you’re not just a mom who will always be there for me. You’re a person with your own feelings, desires, plans.”

For the first time in a long time, I see sincerity in her eyes.

“Thank you for those words, Thelma,” I say quietly. “They mean a lot to me.”

“I’m not asking you to forgive me right away.” She twirls the cup nervously in her hands. “I realize that trust doesn’t rebuild quickly. But I want to try. I want to be a part of your life again—a real part. Not just a daughter who calls once a month.”

I look at my daughter, seeing her not only as a grown woman with graying temples, but also as a little girl who once came to me with her joys and sorrows. Maybe there’s still something of that little girl left in her.

“I wish there were,” I say at last. “But you’re right. Trust must be rebuilt gradually, day by day.”

We talk into the evening. For the first time in years, we have a real conversation instead of just a few sentences. And when Thelma leaves, promising to come back over the weekend, I stay at the window, looking out at the darkening sky and the lights of the city.

My new life is just beginning. A life in which I’m not just a mother, a grandmother, a widow—but above all, myself.

Edith Thornberry. A woman with so much to look forward to.