I paused mid-mop. “Us?”
Nash answered, “You’re not coming, Ma. Grandpa said you're... not up for it. I mean, look at you."
Not up for it... Like I was sick. Or senile. Or something to be pitied.
By sunset, the house was empty. Edmund had shaved. Wore the cologne he only touched for business deals and funerals. He stood tall in his navy suit, fixing Lyle’s and Nash collar like a proud grandfather, and Lester wore his best suit.
“Remember,” Edmund said to them, “Elizabeth’s doing this because she loves us. She's family.”
“We know, grandpa. That's why we love Elizabeth more than Grandma Doris.” they answered in unison.
And then, nothing. No goodbye. No we’ll bring you something. Just the sound of the front door closing like a coffin lid.
The quiet afterward was insulting. A hollow that screamed louder than any slap.
I stood in the middle of the hallway, in my house slippers, holding a basket of unfolded laundry. My stomach growled. I hadn’t cooked. What for?
Out of spite, I turned on the TV. They were on the news.
A live segment from the Luciana Hotel.
Cameras panned across crystal chandeliers and violin quartets. There they were—Elizabeth in her fur shawl. Edmund beside her. My son and his wife smiling like politicians. Lyle and Nash sipping soda in a tiny tuxedo.
The reporter called it: “A private Morroco gathering—Elizabeth’s homecoming. The family behind one of the largest shipping fortunes in the country.”
I was not in the shot. Not in the credits.
Not even in the whispers.
They toasted champagne. I sipped stale coffee.
They laughed under golden light. I wiped a smudge off the glass door.
And just when I thought it couldn’t cut deeper, the camera caught a brief, brutal moment:
Elizabeth leaned toward Edmund, whispered something, and they both laughed.
My son chuckled too. I didn’t know what she said. But I knew it was about me.
I felt it in my teeth.
***
Hours later, just after midnight, the door opened again. I turned. Hoped, stupidly, it might be my son. But no—it was them.
Elizabeth’s heels clicked confidently across the marble as she half-carried Edmund, drunk and swaying, into the house. His tie hung loose, lips pink from too much wine. Eyes bleary, glazed.
“Oh, Doris,” Elizabeth said with a smirk, spotting me standing by the staircase like a ghost. “Didn’t think you’d be awake.”