Lauren twisted her silver engagement ring around her left ring finger until the skin underneath turned white. She did not touch the wheat toast on her plate, though the butter had already gone cold and yellow.
The old refrigerator hummed in the corner of my Elm Street kitchen, a sound I usually managed to ignore during our morning routine. I poured myself a second cup of black coffee from the pot. It was a small habit, but brewing it at home saved me the two dollars I would otherwise spend at the drive-through down the street.
“The formal invitations went out yesterday,” Lauren said, her words coming in a fast, breathless burst that made her shoulder blades twitch under her thin sweater. “We had to limit the guest list because of the chapel size, and Ethan’s family has so many business associates from the city.”
I touched the hollow of my collarbone, where my mother’s silver locket usually rested against my skin. It was a habit from thirty years of administrative work, a physical checkpoint when a customer disputed an interest rate or when a loan application was rejected.
“I am your mother, Lauren,” I said, keeping my cadence slow and even. “I belong in the front row of the church.”
“It is not about that,” Lauren said, her fingers moving even faster around her ring. “Ethan’s family is very particular about the social circle, and I just think it would be easier for everyone if we kept the ceremony small.”
She did not look at me when she spoke. She looked at the linoleum floor, which had a small tear near the pantry that I had covered with a braided blue rug.
“Please do not come to the wedding, Mom,” she said.
The words sat on the kitchen counter between us, heavier than the stoneware mugs. I wondered if my thirty-two-dollar tank of regular gas would get me through the week, or if I would have to stretch it until the next paycheck from the credit union.
“I have worked at the Oakhaven Credit Union for twenty years,” I said, ending the sentence with a flat assertion. “I am not someone to be hidden away.”
