Chapter 8 - Laura Said She Didn't Know How to Mother Me
The kitchen stayed too quiet after Dad finished. He hadn't moved from the other side of the island. The envelope was still there between us, sealed, the twine catching the light over the granite. Mom stood with her hands flat on the counter like she needed it to hold her up, and I stayed on the stool where Dad had told me to sit, my feet not quite touching the floor.
Dad looked at her and waited. He didn't fill the silence.
"I don't know what you want me to say," Laura said finally. Her voice was lower than before. She wasn't shouting now. She kept glancing at me and then away, like looking right at me was harder than talking to Dad. "You think I planned this. Like I woke up and decided to be cruel to him."
"I didn't say cruel," Dad said. He kept his hands still. "I'm asking you to tell the truth about tonight."
She let out a breath and her shoulders dropped. I saw her earrings catch when she shook her head a little.
"I felt overwhelmed," she said. "That's the truth. I've told you that before. When you married me you had a ten-year-old boy who already had a mother, already had routines, already had you. And then I had two kids who look to me for everything. I didn't know how to be his mother. I still don't. So I took care of the ones I knew how to take care of. It wasn't right, but I defaulted to them. I thought if I kept my kids fed and calm, at least I was doing that part right."
Dad didn't interrupt. He let her keep going. The refrigerator hummed behind us.
"Tonight," she said, and she finally looked at me for more than a second, "when Ethan came in, I told him to get cereal. I didn't say it to punish him. I told him that because I didn't know what he liked. He never tells me. He just stands there and says it's fine, whatever. I was making chicken for Maya and Jonah, the way they like it, and I was afraid if I made him a plate he'd push it away or he'd tell his dad I did it wrong. So I thought cereal was safe. It was stupid. I know how that sounded."
I felt my face get hot. I hadn't expected her to say that. I remembered the way she'd said it, not mean exactly, just flat, like I wasn't part of the dinner count. Like she'd already counted to two and stopped.
I didn't mean to speak, but my voice came out quiet.
"I would have eaten whatever you made," I said. I was looking down at the granite, at a little crumb near the edge of the envelope. "You didn't have to make it special. I just wanted to sit down with everyone."
Laura's mouth opened a little and then closed. Her eyes got wet but she didn't cry. She pressed her lips together and nodded once, quick.
"I didn't know that," she said. "I thought you didn't want anything from me."
"It wasn't about being hungry," I said, and my throat felt tight. "It was that you told me to go eat in the other room. Like I wasn't supposed to be there."
Dad took a slow breath. I could see his jaw move, but he didn't raise his voice. He'd been clenching his hands earlier, but now he uncurled them on the counter, palms down.
"I'm not going to yell," he said to Laura, steady and low. "Yelling won't teach any of us how to do this. So I'm asking you, what do you need to learn to mother all the kids in this house? Not just two of them. All three. What would actually help you do that, because Ethan just told you his bar isn't high. He'll eat what you make. He wants a chair at the table. That's it."
Laura wiped under one eye with the side of her finger and didn't look away this time.
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"I need to stop assuming he'll reject me," she said. Her voice cracked a little on the last word. "And I need you to tell me when I'm getting it wrong before it gets like this. Before you need an envelope to prove it."
The envelope hadn't moved. None of us touched it. It just sat there sealed while the kitchen stayed warm and too bright, and for the first time that night I felt like the adults were talking about what to do next instead of about what had already gone wrong.
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