I snipped the green plastic wrapping off the stem of the final white lily and laid it across the dining table. The petals were thick and cool, smelling of cold well water and grocery store refrigeration.
“Forty-two dollars,” I said, clearing my throat to ease the tightness in my chest. “For her sixty-first birthday. It seems like the right amount.”
Noah did not look up from his phone screen. He sat on the edge of my kitchen table, his heavy work boots swinging slightly off the side, rubbing his temples with both thumbs.
“Do not go,” Noah said. “She will only make you feel small.”
“She is our mother, Noah.”
“She adopted us,” he said. “There is a difference.”
I tapped my index finger against my right knee, the fabric of my denim worn thin in that exact spot. I wanted to believe Clara had some warmth left under her starched linen collars, but Noah had always been the practical one. He designed municipal bridges for the county, working with steel and concrete while I drew corporate logo templates on a computer.
“I bought her favorite cake too,” I said. “The lemon one from the bakery on Main Street.”
Noah finally set his phone down on the chipped formica.
“She called me yesterday,” Noah said.
I stopped cutting the blue ribbon. “Clara called you?”
“She wants five thousand dollars,” Noah said. “She said her roof is leaking again.”
“Did you give it to her?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “I told her to sell the Buick.”
My nineteen ninety-eight Buick LeSabre had a rusted bumper and a heater that only worked on high, but it was paid for. It was the only thing I owned that did not feel like a direct hand-me-down from Josh, our adoptive father who had passed away three years ago. Josh used to sit in his quiet wood-paneled study with his pipe resting on the desk edge, watching us play in the yard.
“She will be furious if I show up without the money,” I said.
“Let her be furious,” Noah said. “She has her own savings.”
“We do not know that for sure,” I said.
