Chapter 7: Cookies and Consequences
My mom's front door was unlocked when I arrived, which meant she was expecting someone and had forgotten to tell me she'd also invited me.
Or she had told me and I had missed the message.
Either way, I let myself in.
Lauren was already there.
She was sitting at the kitchen table across from my mom, both of them with tea in front of them and a plate of cookies between them.
Lauren had her coat still on.
My mom had her good cardigan — the blue one she saved for when people visited.
They both looked up when I walked in.
"I didn't know you were coming," my mom said.
She was already halfway out of her chair.
"Sit down, Mom," I said.
"I just wanted to check in."
I pulled out the chair at the end of the table and sat down.
Lauren looked at me briefly, then back at her tea.
"Lauren brought something," my mom said.
On the table beside the cookie plate was an envelope.
Thicker than the one Lauren's mother had brought to dinner.
My mom hadn't opened it yet.
"It's a letter," Lauren said.
"And a check." She looked at my mom.
"From me.
Not from Daniel.
Not from his mother.
From me." She paused.
"The check is for five thousand dollars."
My mom looked at the envelope.
"Lauren, your mother-in-law already—"
"I know," Lauren said.
"Daniel's already spoken to her about reimbursing her.
This one is mine.
My own account." She pressed her lips together.
"I liquidated something I'd been holding onto.
A small investment account I opened before Daniel and I got married.
It was mine to use."
My mom's hands were in her lap.
"You didn't have to do that," she said.
"I know I didn't have to," Lauren said.
"That's why I did it."
My mom looked at the envelope for a long moment.
Then she reached out and touched the edge of it lightly, the way she touched things she wasn't sure she was allowed to have.
"The letter," Lauren said.
"You don't have to read it now.
Or ever.
But I wanted to write it." She paused.
"I said things about you that I'm ashamed of.
I treated you like you didn't matter.
And you do matter." Her voice tightened slightly.
"You matter a lot.
I just — I didn't act like it.
And I'm sorry."
My mom looked up at her.
"I know you are," she said.
Simply.
No performance in it.
Lauren nodded.
She picked up her tea and held it without drinking.
"Can I ask you something?" my mom said.
"Yes," Lauren said.
"When you came to me for the money," my mom said, "were you scared?"
Lauren looked at her.
"I was embarrassed," Lauren said slowly.
"I didn't want Daniel to know I'd let the insurance lapse.
I panicked." She paused.
"I thought — you were the safest person to ask.
Because you'd say yes and you wouldn't tell anyone."
"I wouldn't have told anyone," my mom said.
"I know." Lauren set her cup down.
"That's what I counted on.
And that was wrong.
I took advantage of the fact that you're kind." She met my mom's eyes.
"You deserved better than that."
My mom reached across the table and patted Lauren's hand once.
Just once.
The way she did when she thought something had been said that needed to be acknowledged but didn't need more words around it.
Lauren looked down at my mom's hand on hers.
Something in her face shifted.
Not dramatically.
Just a small, quiet shift, like a door that had been stuck finally moving on its hinge.
I got up and poured myself a cup of tea.
When I sat back down, my mom was telling Lauren about the new refrigerator — the one Daniel had already arranged to have delivered the following Tuesday.
Lauren was nodding, asking what color she'd chosen, whether she'd wanted more freezer space.
Normal conversation.
Careful and a little fragile, the way conversations are when people are trying to find their footing after something hard.
But real.
I ate a cookie.
It was good.
My mom always made good cookies.
After a while, Lauren stood to leave.
She buttoned her coat.
She thanked my mom for the tea.
At the door, she paused.
"I'm going to do better," she said.
She wasn't looking at either of us in particular.
She was looking at the doorframe.
"I know that's easy to say."
"It is," I said.
"I know." She looked at me.
"I'm going to do it anyway."
She left.
My mom and I sat in the quiet for a moment.
"She means it," my mom said.
"Maybe," I said.
"I think she does." My mom picked up her tea.
"People surprise you sometimes."
I looked at the envelope still sitting on the table.
The letter inside it that my mom hadn't opened yet.
"Are you going to read it?" I asked.
My mom considered this.
"Later," she said.
"When I'm alone.
I think it'll be easier that way."
I nodded.
Outside, a car started up and pulled away from the curb.
My mom reached over and moved the cookie plate closer to me.
"Have another one," she said.
"You look like you haven't eaten properly in days."
May you like
I took one.
She was probably right.
