Those three words had a way of making a woman inventory herself without wanting to.
Arms. Neck. Stomach. Knees.
All the places time had written without asking.
"Are you saying I can't see the kids? Because of my post?"
Brittany did not hesitate.
"Exactly."
Then the call ended.
"Are you saying I can't see the kids?"
I kept the phone pressed to my ear for another second, listening to nothing.
George crossed the room, took it from my hand, and placed it face down on the table.
"Give me the keys," he said.
"No."
"I'll talk to Edward, Mary."
"No, George."
"Darling..."
I stood and smoothed the front of my blouse because my mother had taught me that dignity sometimes needs something to do with its hands.
"Give me the keys."
Then I went to the bedroom, put on lipstick, slipped the screenshot into my purse, and came back for my sandals.
George watched from the doorway.
"What are you going to do?"
I looked toward the swimsuit drying on the chair.
For a second, I saw myself on that beach again, laughing before I remembered to be ashamed.
"I'm going to ask for dinner."
"What are you going to do?"
***
Brittany opened the door with her phone in one hand.
She had always been beautiful in the polished way magazines liked. Smooth hair, smooth skin, white blouse, tidy house behind her. Even her irritation looked rehearsed.
"Mary?"
"Hello, Brittany."
Her eyes flicked to my purse.
"Hello, Brittany."
If she expected me to pull out the screenshot that she didn't know I'd taken and start shouting, she must have been disappointed.
I kept both hands folded in front of me.
"I'd like the children to come over for Sunday dinner."
She just shook her head.
"No."
She just shook her head.
From the hallway, I heard my youngest granddaughter laugh. That small sound passed through the doorway and landed somewhere under my ribs.
"I'll wait for Edward," I said.
Brittany stepped onto the porch and pulled the door partly closed behind her.
"You don't get to show up and act wounded, Mary."
I looked at her then.
"I'll wait for Edward."
For the first time, I noticed how tired she seemed beneath the perfect makeup. How quickly her eyes moved toward the front window, checking reflections, angles, and what could be seen.
"I am wounded," I admitted.
That seemed to annoy her more than anger would have.
Before she could answer, Edward's truck pulled into the driveway.
"I am wounded."
My son stepped out carrying a grocery bag and wearing the bewildered expression men wear when they sense trouble but cannot yet name it.
"Mom?"
I took the folded screenshot from my purse and handed it to him.
Brittany froze. "Mary, what is that?"
Edward read it. The bag slid against his leg. A box of cereal tilted out and hit the driveway.
"Mary, what is that?"
He did not pick it up.
"Brit."
His voice was not loud.
That made it worse.
"Did you comment on Mom's beach post?"
She crossed her arms.
"I deleted it."
That made it worse.
Edward looked at her.
"You wrote it."
The porch went quiet.
A car passed.
Inside the house, one of the children called for juice.
I did not want a battle on the front steps. Not with my grandchildren ten feet away. Not over a body that had already carried babies, surgeries, grief, groceries, laundry, and 41 years of George's hand reaching for mine in the dark.
I did not want a battle.
"I'm not here to choose sides," I said.
Edward looked at me.
His face had gone pale around the mouth.
"Mom, I'm sorry."
I raised one hand.
"Not now, dear."
Brittany let out a breath that sounded almost like relief.
"Mom, I'm sorry."
I turned to her.
"Sunday dinner. You, Edward, and the children. That's all I'm asking."
She looked ready to refuse again.
Edward bent to pick up the cereal box. His hands moved slowly, buying time he did not know how to fill.
"Brittany," he said, "we're going."
She looked ready to refuse again.
