I snipped the green plastic wrapping off the stem of the final white lily and laid it across the dining table. The petals were thick and cool, smelling of cold well water and grocery store refrigeration.
“Forty-two dollars,” I said, clearing my throat to ease the tightness in my chest. “For her sixty-first birthday. It seems like the right amount.”
Noah did not look up from his phone screen. He sat on the edge of my kitchen table, his heavy work boots swinging slightly off the side, rubbing his temples with both thumbs.
“Do not go,” Noah said. “She will only make you feel small.”
“She is our mother, Noah.”
“She adopted us,” he said. “There is a difference.”
I tapped my index finger against my right knee, the fabric of my denim worn thin in that exact spot. I wanted to believe Clara had some warmth left under her starched linen collars, but Noah had always been the practical one. He designed municipal bridges for the county, working with steel and concrete while I drew corporate logo templates on a computer.
