A Sunday that started too well
The day had dawned beautiful, and perhaps that’s why what came next hurt even more. The winter sky was pale and clear, and the sunlight stretched across the ground in serene bands. I cooked listening to music, humming as I stirred the mashed potatoes and kept an eye on the roast. On the counter, under a glass dome, a chocolate cake with thick, glossy frosting was cooling—my daughter’s favorite dessert since she was little.
I still remembered her standing on a chair next to me, crooked clips in her hair, licking her spoon while I told her not to spoil her appetite. “Just one more little taste, Mommy ,” she begged. Now Sally was thirty-one, a wife and mother, but there were still times when I saw that little girl in her face. Especially lately. Especially when she came into my house with tired eyes and a smile that seemed to take effort.
Sally had been struggling with postpartum depression and weight gain ever since the birth of my six-year-old granddaughter, Emmy, a curious and bright little girl with Sally’s big eyes and Greg’s stubborn chin. Luckily, I didn’t see much of him in her.
That afternoon, Emmy came running in with a small paper bag in her hands. I crouched down and hugged her tightly. Sally came in behind her, more slowly, wearing black leggings and a loose green sweater, her hair tied back. She looked lovely, but exhausted. Not with the usual tiredness of raising a child: it was something deeper, something that settled behind her eyes. Greg came in last, phone in hand, barely glancing up to say hello. I saw Sally look at him for a second and then immediately look away.
