“How’s Olivia?”
I looked at my mother across the kitchen table. At the suggestion of her beautician, she’d recently stopped coloring her hair and the gray had returned with a vengeance, but not in a bad way. She looked better than ever, in my opinion. In addition to the color (or lack thereof), her stylist had convinced her to get a haircut and the shorter bob her really flattered her face. My father, unfortunately, wasn’t a fan of his wife’s recent hair changes. He preferred my mother to have the longer sandy brown locks he’d grown accustomed to, but he was slow to change in general about most things.
“By the time your father starts to like my hair, I’ll change it again,” she told me.
I’d stopped by my parents’ house one Saturday morning to see how they were doing. My father was on his
