He came home exhausted, expecting a peaceful evening.

I heard the party before I opened my front door.

Someone laughed over the sound of music. Glasses clinked. I smelled roasted chicken and the expensive candles Vanessa saved for company.

I had spent eleven hours at the warehouse. All I wanted was a shower, a plate of food, and twenty quiet minutes with my mother.

Mom had come to stay with us for the weekend. She was seventy-eight, and she still insisted on taking the bus when I offered to pick her up. That morning, she had sounded excited about dinner.

“Vanessa invited me early,” she’d said. “She wants to talk about my house.”

I had asked what about it. Mom said we would talk when I got home.

I set my bag by the stairs. Vanessa and three friends sat in the living room with wine. My twelve-year-old daughter, Naomi, was curled up in a chair, staring at a book without turning the page.

Vanessa looked over her shoulder.

“Isaiah. You’re late.”

“My shift ran long.”

“Dinner’s finished. There might be some left.”

I took two steps toward her, then heard water running in the kitchen.

Mom stood at the sink.

She wore the blue blouse she saved for special occasions. Its sleeves were rolled above her elbows. Dirty plates covered both sides of the counter, and she was scrubbing a roasting pan with both hands.

Her shoulders were bent.

A clean dish towel lay on the floor near her feet.

“Mom?”

She turned. Her smile came too quickly.

“You’re home, baby.”

“What are you doing?”

“Helping with the dishes.”

There were enough dishes for a room full of people. I saw wineglasses, serving bowls, and little plates with dried frosting on them. Mom’s hands were red from the hot water.

“Vanessa asked me to give her a hand,” she said.

I reached past her and turned off the tap.

“When did you start?”

“It’s all right.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Mom glanced toward the living room. I knew that look. She used it when she didn’t want anyone to hear her complain.

“I started after dinner,” she said.

Dinner had been over long enough for the chicken grease to harden.

I saw an untouched plate on the far counter. Mom followed my eyes.

“I was going to eat when I finished.”

I picked up the plate. The food was cold.

Behind me, Naomi appeared in the kitchen doorway.

“Dad,” she said quietly.

I looked at her. She pressed her lips together and shook her head once, as if she was afraid of saying the wrong thing.

“Go sit with Grandma,” I told her. “I’ll handle the rest.”

Mom reached for the sponge.

“Isaiah, please. I don’t mind.”

I held the sponge away from the sink.

“You came here to have dinner with us. Sit down and eat. I’ll warm this up.”

Her face changed. For a second, I saw how tired she was.

Naomi pulled out a chair. Mom sat.

I walked into the living room carrying the sponge. Vanessa was laughing at something her friend Holly had said. Another friend, Elise, looked up at me. Her smile faded.

“Party’s over,” I said.

The room went still.

Vanessa set down her glass.

“Excuse me?”

“My mother has been washing your dishes while you sit here drinking. She hasn’t eaten.”

“I asked her to help,” Vanessa said. “She said yes.”

“She’s seventy-eight.”

“She’s perfectly capable of washing a plate.”

“Then you can help her. Your guests can take their dishes home or leave them for me.”

Holly stared into her wineglass. Elise looked toward the kitchen.

Vanessa rose slowly.

“You’re embarrassing me in front of my friends.”

“You embarrassed yourself.”

My voice was louder than I intended. I lowered it, but I stayed where I was.

“I want everyone to go home. Then you and I are going to talk. If you speak to Mom this way again, you’ll need to stay somewhere else.”

Vanessa gave a short laugh.

“You’re giving me an ultimatum over dishes?”

“I’m telling you what I saw. Mom came here as family. You put her to work while you entertained.”

Holly stood and reached for her coat. Elise followed. Vanessa’s third friend, Dana, offered to carry the empty bottles to the kitchen. I told her to leave them.

I didn’t want Mom lifting a finger because they felt guilty on their way out.

After the front door closed, Vanessa faced me.

“You had no right to order my friends out.”

“We’ll talk after Mom eats.”

“I wouldn’t wait,” she said.

There was something in her voice that made me stop.

Naomi stood in the kitchen doorway again. She looked from Vanessa to me.

“Go sit with Grandma, sweetheart,” I said.

Vanessa opened the drawer beneath the coffee table. She took out a pale folder and held it against her chest.

“Your mother and I had a productive afternoon,” she said.

“What does that mean?”

Mom came into the doorway behind Naomi. Her face had gone pale.

“Vanessa told me it was just permission to get an estimate,” she whispered.

Vanessa smiled without looking at her.

“Your mother signed the papers, Isaiah. Tomorrow, we can finally move forward with the house.”

I stared at the folder in my wife’s hand.

Mom owned her house outright. It was the place where she had raised me and where my father had planted the peach tree she still cared for every spring.

I looked at Mom.

“What papers?”