I stared at him.
“There is no Carter anniversary event here.”
His expression changed.
“I have an agreement.”
“With whom?”
“Diane Carter.”
“She’s my mother.”
He smiled uncertainly.
“Right.”
“She does not own this property.”
His smile disappeared.
I asked to see the paperwork.
Mom had booked catering for forty.
Tables.
Linens.
A portable bar.
Two servers.
A three-course buffet.
She had listed my address as the event location.
Under property contact she had written:
Diane Carter — family owner.
Family owner.
I almost laughed.
Instead I photographed the page.
Then I told the caterer he could not enter the property Saturday.
He apologized repeatedly.
He wasn’t the problem.
An hour later, Mom called.
“You embarrassed me.”
“You lied to a vendor.”
“I didn’t lie.”
“You called yourself an owner.”
“Claire, stop with the technicalities.”
Technicalities.
A deed was now a technicality.
“The party is not happening here.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No.”
“You cannot cancel forty people two days before our anniversary.”
“You invited forty people to property you don’t own.”
She raised her voice.
“We have done everything for you.”
I looked through the kitchen doorway.
Sophie was asleep on the couch beneath one of David’s old quilts.
“Then do one more thing.”
“What?”
“Protect your granddaughter.”
Mom said nothing.
I thought maybe something had finally reached her.
Then she said:
“Lock her upstairs.”
I genuinely believed I’d misheard.
“What?”
“Put Sophie upstairs. Lock the bedroom door if you’re so worried. People can stay downstairs and outside.”
I couldn’t speak.
Mom continued.
“She’s twelve. Give her a tablet and some snacks. She’ll survive one afternoon.”
Survive.
That word.
After everything Sophie had endured, my mother used the word survive to explain why her party mattered more.
“You want me to lock my immunocompromised child in her bedroom while forty guests use our kitchen, bathroom, hallway and living room?”
“You’re twisting it.”
“No. I’m repeating it.”
“She’s not dying, Claire.”
I looked at Sophie.
