Chapter 2
Denise didn't move toward the stairs.
Instead, she laughed.
It was a short, ugly laugh that made my mother retreat another step into the kitchen.
"You're throwing your wife out because your mother washed some dishes?"
I looked at her.
"I'm telling you to leave because you humiliated her."
"Oh, please."
She turned toward her friends.
"Can somebody explain to my husband how ridiculous this sounds?"
Nobody answered.
Her closest friend, Angela, looked down at her hands.
Another woman, Rochelle, stood and picked up her purse.
"Denise, I think we should go."
Denise stared at her.
"Seriously?"
Rochelle didn't look at me.
"I didn't know Evelyn was doing all the work."
"She volunteered!"
My mother whispered, "No, I didn't."
Denise spun around.
"What did you say?"
I immediately stepped between them.
"Don't speak to her like that."
Denise's face changed.
For one second, the confident woman disappeared.
In her place stood someone furious at being challenged.
"You know what, Marcus? Fine."
She grabbed her phone.
"I'll leave. But when you realize you've destroyed your marriage over this nonsense, don't come begging."
I didn't answer.
Her friends began walking toward the front door.
Angela stopped beside my mother.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Evelyn."
Mom gave her a confused look.
"For what, sweetheart?"
Angela opened her mouth.
Then she looked toward Denise and seemed to change her mind.
"For today."
She hurried outside.
I watched Denise climb the stairs.
Her heels struck each step like hammer blows.
Then a bedroom door slammed.
My mother started crying harder.
"Marcus, please. I didn't mean for this to happen."
I turned around.
"Mom, look at me."
She struggled to raise her eyes.
"You did nothing wrong."
"But she's your wife."
"And you're my mother."
"I don't want to break up your marriage."
I gently took her hands.
They felt rough and strangely cold.
"Mom, how long has she been treating you this way?"
She looked away.
"She gets upset sometimes."
"How long?"
"Marcus..."
"Please."
Her lips trembled.
"Since a few weeks after I moved in."
I felt sick.
Mom had been living with us for five months.
Five months.
I thought about every evening I'd come home from work and found her already in her bedroom.
Denise always said she was tired.
I thought about the times my mother refused to join us for dinner.
Denise said Mom preferred eating early.
I thought about the cardigan Mom wore even when the house felt warm.
I had assumed she was simply getting cold easily with age.
"Tell me everything."
She shook her head.
"Not tonight."
"Mom—"
"Please, baby. I'm so tired."
I looked at the dishes.
Then at her exhausted face.
"Come sit down."
I guided her to the sofa and brought her water.
She lowered herself carefully onto the cushion.
When I reached for a pillow to support her back, she flinched.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Mom."
She hesitated.
"My hip hurts a little."
"Did you fall?"
"No."
"Did Denise hurt you?"
Her eyes widened.
"No! No, Marcus."
But her hands started shaking again.
I sat beside her.
"You're safe with me."
She gave me a small smile.
That smile almost broke me.
An hour later, I helped her upstairs to the guest bedroom.
Except when I opened the door, I froze.
The room looked different.
Her comfortable armchair was gone.
So was the small television I'd bought her.
The dresser stood almost empty.
And the thick quilt she'd brought from her old house was missing.
"Mom, where are your things?"
She stared at the floor.
"Denise said we needed the space."
"For what?"
"Storage."
I looked around.
There wasn't any storage.
Just a narrow bed, a cheap lamp, and one small closet.
"Where's your quilt?"
"In the garage."
"Your chair?"
"Garage."
"Your television?"
She whispered, "Denise gave it away."
I closed my eyes.
When I opened them, my mother was watching me anxiously.
"Please don't get angry again."
I took a deep breath.
"Not at you, Mom. Never at you."
I helped her into bed.
Then I went straight to the garage.
Her chair was pushed behind old paint cans.
Her quilt was stuffed inside a dusty box.
Her framed photographs were wrapped in newspaper.
I found pictures of my father.
Pictures of me as a child.
A photograph from my college graduation.
Every one of them had been removed from her room.
At the bottom of the box was a little wooden plaque.
HOME IS WHERE LOVE LIVES.
I'd given it to her for Mother's Day when I was twelve.
My throat tightened.
I carried everything back upstairs.
Then I heard Denise behind me.
"What are you doing?"
I turned.
She was wearing a silk robe and holding her phone.
"Putting Mom's belongings back."
"You can't just clutter the house."
"Her room isn't clutter."
"It's our house, Marcus."
"No."
Her expression changed.
"What?"
"It's my house. I bought it three years before we married."
Denise stared at me.
"So that's what this is about? Money?"
"This is about respect."
She stepped closer.
"Your mother is manipulating you."
I said nothing.
"She's always wanted me gone."
"Stop."
"She plays the sweet little old lady, and you believe every word."
"Stop talking."
Denise folded her arms.
"You don't know everything about your precious mother."
I felt my stomach tighten.
"What does that mean?"
She smiled.
"Maybe you should ask her what she's been hiding."
I stared at her.
"What's she hiding?"
Instead of answering, Denise walked past me.
She entered our bedroom and locked the door.
A minute later, I heard her speaking quietly on the phone.
I couldn't hear every word.
But one sentence came through clearly.
"He found out about the cleaning. We need to move faster."
My blood turned cold.
We?
Who was we?
I stood outside the bedroom door, listening.
Then Denise said something that changed everything.
"No. He still doesn't know about the papers."
I looked toward my mother's bedroom.
The papers?
What papers?
I suddenly understood that my wife wasn't simply cruel.
May you like
She was hiding something.
And whatever it was, my mother was terrified of it.
