Then she locked it.
“You’re still keeping records?” I asked.
“Absolutely.”
I smiled.
“You really plan to make everything equal?”
She slipped the brass key into her pocket.
“As equal as I possibly can.”
I hugged her.
For years, I had assumed Mom lived modestly because she simply didn’t want much.
Melissa had apparently believed the same thing.
We were both wrong.
Mom wanted plenty.
She wanted trips.
Memories.
Attention.
Things to look forward to.
She had simply spent decades putting her daughters’ needs ahead of her own.
And somewhere
