Moja synowa zabroniła mi spotykać się z wnukami z powodu zdjęcia na Facebooku – więc dałem jej znać

George crossed the room, took it from my hand, and placed it face down on the table.

“Give me the keys,” he said.

“No.”

“I’ll talk to Edward, Mary.”

“No, George.”

“Darling…”

I stood and smoothed the front of my blouse because my mother had taught me that dignity sometimes needs something to do with its hands.

“Give me the keys.”

Then I went to the bedroom, put on lipstick, slipped the screenshot into my purse, and came back for my sandals.

George watched from the doorway.

“What are you going to do?”

I looked toward the swimsuit drying on the chair.

For a second, I saw myself on that beach again, laughing before I remembered to be ashamed.

“I’m going to ask for dinner.”

“What are you going to do?”

***

Brittany opened the door with her phone in one hand.

She had always been beautiful in the polished way magazines liked. Smooth hair, smooth skin, white blouse, tidy house behind her. Even her irritation looked rehearsed.

“Mary?”

“Hello, Brittany.”

Her eyes flicked to my purse.

“Hello, Brittany.”

If she expected me to pull out the screenshot that she didn’t know I’d taken and start shouting, she must have been disappointed.

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