Edward read it. The bag slid against his leg. A box of cereal tilted out and hit the driveway.
“Mary, what is that?”
He did not pick it up.
“Brit.”
His voice was not loud.
That made it worse.
“Did you comment on Mom’s beach post?”
She crossed her arms.
“I deleted it.”
That made it worse.
Edward looked at her.
“You wrote it.”
The porch went quiet.
A car passed.
Inside the house, one of the children called for juice.
I did not want a battle on the front steps. Not with my grandchildren ten feet away. Not over a body that had already carried babies, surgeries, grief, groceries, laundry, and 41 years of George’s hand reaching for mine in the dark.
I did not want a battle.
“I’m not here to choose sides,” I said.
Edward looked at me.
His face had gone pale around the mouth.
“Mom, I’m sorry.”
I raised one hand.
“Not now, dear.”
Brittany let out a breath that sounded almost like relief.
“Mom, I’m sorry.”
I turned to her.
“Sunday dinner. You, Edward, and the children. That’s all I’m asking.”
She looked ready to refuse again.
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