When I told Anna, she didn’t even bat an eyelid.
“You’re thinking of deep-cleaning the kitchen, aren’t you?” she asked, pouring herself a cup of tea.
“I don’t want her walking in here and twisting what she sees, honey.”
“She’s going to twist it either way. This is… this is who we are. Let her twist everything, it’s what she does.”
I did clean, but I didn’t stage anything.
The magnet-covered fridge stayed the way it was. The messy shoe rack by the door stayed, too.
My mother showed up the following afternoon, exactly on schedule. She was dressed in a camel-toned coat, heels tapping sharply against our uneven walkway. I smelled her perfume before I saw her.
When I opened the door, she stepped inside without a greeting. She glanced around once, then grabbed the doorframe as if steadying herself.
“Oh my God—what is this?”
She moved through the living room as though the floor might collapse under her heels.
Her gaze skimmed every surface, taking in the thrifted sofa, the nicked coffee table, and the faint crayon streaks Aaron had once drawn along the baseboards—marks I’d never bothered to erase.
She stopped short in the hallway.
Her eyes settled on the faded handprints just outside Aaron’s bedroom—green smears he’d left there himself after we’d painted the room together.
In the corner stood the upright piano. Its finish was worn thin, the left pedal creaked when pressed, and one key refused to rise all the way back up.
Aaron came in from the kitchen with a juice box in hand. He glanced at her, then at the piano. Without a word, he climbed onto the bench and began to play. My mother turned at the sound—and went completely still.
The tune was cautious and unsteady. Chopin. The very piece she had forced me to practice endlessly, until my fingers ached and my hands went numb.
“Where did he learn that?” she asked. Her voice had lowered, though it wasn’t gentle.
“He wanted to learn,” I said. “So I taught him.”
Aaron stepped down from the bench and crossed the room, gripping a sheet of paper in both hands.
“I made you something,” he said.
He held up a drawing: our family standing on the front porch. My mother was in the upstairs window, surrounded by flower boxes.
“I didn’t know what kind of flowers you liked, so I drew all of them.”
“We don’t yell here,” he added. “Daddy says yelling makes the house forget how to breathe…”
Her jaw tightened. She blinked, but said nothing.
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