Marcus laughed and reached for my hand.
“Mom, you’ve asked her this three times.”
“Have I? I must be getting old.”
But her eyes did not look old. They looked sharp.
Later, while I was washing dishes, I noticed Diane at the counter, thumbing through our mail: bills, a bank envelope, a wedding invitation from a friend.
“Just tidying,” she said when she caught me watching.
I dried my hands and did not answer.
That night in bed, I told Marcus his mother had been going through our mail.
“She’s just curious,” he mumbled into the pillow. “She misses being needed.”
“Marcus.”
“Elena, please. She’s my mom.”
I let it go. I always let it go.
The next morning, the routine ran the same as always. Coffee. The grinder. Marcus at the table in his gray sweater, marking papers.
Diane was there again, unannounced, sitting across from him with her hands wrapped around a mug.
“You’re up early,” I said, pulling on my coat.
“I brought muffins,” Diane replied, without looking at the muffins or at me.
