Gertrude moved temporarily into Chloe’s spare room, an arrangement neither woman seemed particularly happy about.

Chloe called one evening after an argument about dinner.

“Mom says you used to make her exactly what she liked,” she sighed.

“Sometimes I did.

Sometimes she complained anyway.”

“She complains when I cook too.

I think I finally understand.”

We laughed, not because it was funny, but because a small honest laugh was better than another hour of resentment.