Downstairs in the kitchen at noon, the smell of roasted chicken was thick and warm, filling the high-ceilinged room with a domestic comfort that felt entirely hollow. My mother, Martha, stood by the copper sink, smoothing the collar of her cream knit cardigan with two quick, sharp tugs of her fingers. I sat at the oak table with a soft cloth, polishing the heavy silver butter dish we only used for Sunday dinners.
“Julian called me yesterday,” Martha said, her voice clipped and dry as she stared out at the back lawn.
I kept my eyes on the silver, rubbing a dark spot near the ornate rim of the dish, keeping my strokes even and slow.
Martha didn’t look at me as she spoke. She was meticulous about the silver, believing that any dullness on the family tea service reflected directly on her character as a homemaker. I used a small horsehair brush to get the polish into the crevices of the butter dish, where the silver leaves met the base. My fingers were slightly stained with the black residue of the tarnish.
“He sounded tired, Clara,” she continued, turning her head slightly toward me. “A divorce at your age is a very public kind of failure.”
“Julian and I made our choice, Mother,” I said, keeping my tone low and measured.
“Victoria is bringing her new clients to dinner next week,” Martha said, her voice sharp. “She has so much on her plate, yet she always makes time to help her father with the estate paperwork. She is the only daughter who respects our family traditions.”
“I help when I can, Mother,” I said, keeping my tone level.
“Polishing silver is not the same as managing a legacy, Clara.”
