“I will get you some hot soup,” I said. “And I will turn on the kitchen burners to warm the place up.”
“The gas is off, David,” she said.
I went into the small kitchen and pulled the chain on the overhead light. The bulb flickered, casting a harsh yellow glare over the white subway tile.
I opened the refrigerator. The shelves were entirely bare. There was no milk, no bread, and none of the pre-made meals I had ordered before my departure. The only thing inside was a small plastic jar of yellow mustard.
On the laminate counter, next to the empty toaster, sat a piece of heavy cream stationery.
I recognized my mother’s elegant, slanted handwriting immediately.
I picked up the paper. The note was brief.
“Maya, we cannot spend our holiday waiting for you to feel better. A real mother does not play the victim. We have taken the spare keys. Eleanor.”
