Melissa begged me to stay for a week while my son traveled, saying my grandchildren missed me. Instead, she turned me into her unpaid maid, nanny, and cook. Then she handed me a $2,000 invoice for staying in her home. By sunrise, the entire neighborhood knew exactly what she’d done.
I tightened the lid on the last jar of strawberry jam.
I hummed an old tune my late husband used to whistle, feeling the quiet peace of a home that had grown too quiet since he passed.
Twelve jars sat in a neat row, ruby-red and gleaming.
I imagined my grandchildren’s faces when they tasted them.
The phone rang.
My daughter-in-law’s name lit up the screen.
« Margaret, thank goodness you answered, » she said.
