By Tuesday evening, she snapped.
“Stop interviewing me.”
But I didn’t let it go.
“I’m checking on you.”
“You’ve checked on me four times today.”
“I’m your daughter.”
“Then just be my daughter.”
I didn’t know what to do with that.
“I’m your daughter.”
On Wednesday, Mom asked me to pick up a casserole.
I still had the old brass key she’d given me years ago.
I knocked once, opened the door, and called, “Mom?”
“In the hall.”
I found her surrounded by cardboard boxes.
Dad’s old leather jacket lay half folded inside the donation box.
I knocked once.
I pulled it out.
“You’re giving this away?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“It’s Dad’s.”
“I know whose jacket it is.”
“You can’t just get rid of his things.”
“You’re giving this away?”
Mom looked at me.
“Why?”
I tightened my grip on the jacket.
“Because they’re his.”
“Your father had six jackets.”
