The SUV was gone from the garage. Rebecca’s car was gone too. Only she was left. And the note.

“We decided to spend Thanksgiving in Hawaii this year. We didn’t tell you sooner because we knew you’d insist on coming. The flight is long, and you get tired too easily now.

We’ll be back in a week. There’s soup in the freezer.”

Margaret placed the note on the table.

She was seventy-three, but she was not a child. She did not need anyone deciding whether she could board a plane, walk through an airport, or sit by the ocean.

What hurt most wasn’t that they’d gone without her. It was that they’d left her behind like a plant someone waters before leaving for vacation.

Four years earlier, after Arthur passed away, Daniel had told her, “Mom, come live with us. I don’t want you alone. Besides, the kids would love having you close.”

Margaret sold her small apartment in Oak Park and moved to Arizona. She used part of the money for the down payment on the house. She bought the refrigerator, the living room set, the washer, the dryer, the curtains, the dining table, and even the Italian coffee maker Rebecca proudly showed off to her friends.

At first, they called her a blessing.

Little by little, that blessing became an obligation.

If Margaret wanted to go downtown with a friend, Rebecca would tighten her mouth. “And who’s picking the kids up from swim practice?”

If Margaret said her back hurt, Daniel would sigh. “Mom, we’re only asking you to help with dinner. It’s not a big deal.”