Chapter 15 - Margaret Finally Let Daniel Call Her Mom
Five years after the frying pan hit the floor, Daniel visited Margaret on a Sunday morning.
She was eighty-one.
Her apartment overlooked a courtyard filled with dogwoods.
Margaret was in the kitchen making pancakes badly.
Daniel took the spatula from her.
“You’re burning them.”
“I raised you on these.”
“That explains several childhood illnesses.”
Margaret swatted his arm lightly with a dish towel.
Daniel laughed.
On the counter sat a cheap lightweight frying pan.
For years, even seeing one had brought back the living room.
Claire.
Margaret on the floor.
CLANG.
Now it held:
pancakes.
Nothing more.
Daniel flipped one.
Margaret watched.
“You finally learned something useful.”
“From you.”
“Obviously.”
They ate at the small table near the window.
Margaret asked about work.
Daniel complained about employees.
She told him he sounded like Robert.
He complained about:
that.
Normal.
Then Margaret became quiet.
“Can I ask you something?”
Daniel looked up.
“What?”
“Why have you always called me Margaret?”
The question surprised him.
“You told me to.”
“When you were nine.”
“You said you weren’t trying to replace my mother.”
“I wasn’t.”
Daniel nodded.
Laura still mattered.
Her photographs remained in his house.
Her life did not become smaller because Margaret raised:
him.
Then Daniel said:
“You want me to call you something else?”
Margaret shrugged.
“Maybe I’m old enough to be less philosophical.”
Daniel smiled.
For a moment he saw the woman she had been when he was a child.
Standing outside school.
Holding his baseball glove.
Waiting after everyone else had gone home.
The woman who never demanded the title.
The woman who stayed anyway.
Daniel reached across the table.
“Okay, Mom.”
Margaret looked down immediately.
Her eyes filled.
“Oh, don’t make a production out of it,” she muttered.
Daniel laughed.
“Yes, Mom.”
“Once was enough.”
“Sure, Mom.”
She threw a napkin at him.
It landed somewhere near his shoulder.
Daniel stared at it.
Margaret froze.
Then both of them started laughing.
No fear.
No threat.
No one was trying to force anyone out of a home.
Years earlier Claire had told Daniel that Margaret was not really his mother because biology gave the title rules.
Claire had been wrong.
Laura was Daniel’s mother.
Margaret was also his mother.
One had given him life.
One had stepped into the wreckage after death and spent decades helping him live it.
There had never been any need to erase one woman to honor the other.
Daniel gathered the plates.
Margaret pointed toward the sink.
“You’re washing.”
“Yes, Mom.”
She rolled her eyes.
And Daniel smiled.
May you like
This time the word belonged to:
her.
