More unfortunately, she knew when I was lying to myself.
At eleven thirty, we drove to St.
Mark’s Church to unload donated hymnals from her trunk.
The metal cart squeaked every time we turned it.
Ruth carried the lighter boxes despite my protests.
“You’re counting the days,” she said as we approached the basement entrance.
“I have a calendar.”
“You have a mother brain.”
That made me laugh.
My daughter was twenty-nine years old.
She had her own apartment, an established career in marketing, and a future husband who seemed thoughtful whenever I’d had the opportunity to speak with him.
Yet I still thought of her as the little girl who once hid my car keys because she didn’t want me to leave for an evening shift.
Back then, I worked mornings at a school office and evenings keeping inventory for a hardware store.
When Lauren was small, I rarely had enough time to be the kind of mother featured in magazines.