Uncle Terry called at noon. Didn’t leave a voicemail, which was merciful.
Barb from church called at 3:17 p.m.
Barb, who had been at our Thanksgiving dinner. Barb, who watched my mother toast Ashley’s strength and thank me for being here. Barb, who saw my children without a bedroom and said nothing.
Her voicemail was the one that landed hardest.
“Lauren, honey, your mother called me crying. She says you’ve abandoned the family. I don’t know what happened between you two, but I’ve known your mother for twenty years, and that woman loves you so much. She just doesn’t always know how to show it. Please call her, sweetheart. Life is too short for this.”
She just doesn’t always know how to show it.
The universal alibi of people who never had to be on the receiving end.
Barb had watched my mother hand sleeping bags to my children and said nothing. And now she was calling me to say my mother loves me.
From the outside, the math always looks different.
By Wednesday evening, the count was at 198.
I know because my phone tracks call history, and I scrolled through it while Ellie colored at the kitchen table and Owen built something complicated out of Legos on the floor.