After a family dinner, while I was cleaning up in the kitchen, my daughter-in-law leaned close and whispered, “You old witch, I only tolerate you because of my husband.” I laughed it off and replied, “Don’t worry, you won’t be seeing me anymore.” The very next day, I had the locks on the house changed and…

I placed the finished waffles on a large plate beside the maple syrup. Phillip appeared just as I finished washing the pan.

At forty two, with a receding hairline and a slight paunch, he still looked like the little boy I used to carry in my arms. He was my only son, my pride, and my pain.

He yawned and called me a miracle as he looked at the waffles. In moments like these, I wanted to believe that not all was lost.

I wanted to believe my boy was still in there beneath the tired and passive man who let his wife rule his mother’s house. I told him with a smile that his father always said a Saturday without waffles was not a Saturday.

Phillip nodded but avoided my gaze. We both knew he did not like me talking about George.

It reminded him how much had changed since his father’s death five years earlier. Melinda returned to the kitchen and held the hand cream out demonstratively.

She announced that it was on the nightstand just like Skyler said. She glanced at me and told me not to touch her things next time because everyone needs personal space.

I nodded silently though a thousand replies screamed in my head. My personal space had been violated long ago.