Well, that’s not entirely true. I asked for respect. I asked to be treated like his mother, not like an employee who had already served her purpose. But apparently that was too much to ask.
The invitation came a week ago. Michael called me, which was unusual because lately he only sends me short, cold text messages—the everything good or talk later kind. His voice sounded strangely kind when he said that he and Marleene wanted to invite me to dinner to reconnect, he said.
“We feel like we’ve been distant, Mom. We want to fix things.”
How naive I was to believe him.
I got dressed in the best thing I had, a pearl gray dress. Simple but elegant. Nothing flashy. I’ve never been one to draw attention. I fixed my hair. I put on a little makeup. I wanted to look good for my son, to show him that even though I was 64 years old, I was still his mother—the woman who gave everything for him.
When I arrived at the restaurant, they were all already seated: Michael, Marlene, and to my surprise, her parents as well. Four people waiting for me at a table that was clearly set for five. They greeted me with air kisses, the kind that don’t touch the skin.