My mother had originally offered to host dinner at home.
She wanted to cook something warm and comforting, perhaps her roasted chicken with rosemary potatoes or the apple pie everyone loved.
Clarissa refused.
She said a restaurant would provide “neutral territory.”
The phrase had bothered me from the moment she used it. This was supposed to be two mothers meeting before their children’s wedding, not representatives from rival countries negotiating a treaty.
Still, my mother agreed.
She nearly always agreed when she believed disagreement might create tension.
Unfortunately, I had inherited that habit from her.
For most of my relationship with Clarissa’s son, I had ignored his mother’s rude comments, demanding behavior, and endless appetite for other people’s hospitality.
I kept telling myself that it was easier to remain polite.
I was about to learn how expensive that politeness could become.
On the morning of the dinner, I woke with a pounding headache and aching muscles. By noon, I was running a fever so high that even walking to the kitchen left me dizzy.
My mother pressed her hand against my forehead and immediately frowned.
“You’re not leaving this house tonight.”
“I have to go,” I protested. “I arranged the meeting.”
“You can barely sit upright.”
“If we cancel now, Clarissa will treat it like a personal insult.”
My mother sighed because she knew I was right.
Clarissa collected grievances the way some people collected jewelry. She polished them, displayed them, and brought them out whenever she wanted attention.
After several minutes of arguing, we reached a decision I would soon regret.
My mother would go alone.
