Until this Thanksgiving.
David called a week in advance and asked if he could visit for the holiday. She was stunned. He’d never come for Thanksgiving before. “Just for a couple hours,” he’d said. “I want to spend it with you.”
Margaret spent the next six days cleaning. She dusted every corner of her tiny apartment, polished the mismatched ceramic dishes she’d had since David was a boy, and washed her frayed linens. She even baked a pecan pie from scratch.
He arrived just after noon.
Sharp suit, polished shoes—but with a warmth in his eyes she hadn’t seen in years. He hugged her tightly. “You look beautiful, Mom.”
“You need your eyes checked,” she joked.
They made mashed potatoes together and even laughed over burnt rolls. David didn’t check his phone once. He listened to her stories, asked about her garden that she could barely maintain in pots on the fire escape, and remembered little things from childhood. For the first time in a long while, she felt not like a woman forgotten, but a mother cherished.
