Mom has been silently fuming since I told her about the lease, vigorously scrubbing the kitchen counter instead of talking to me. This is Mom in denial mode. After Dad’s stroke, when it was clear to everyone else he wouldn’t have the strength to keep working at the restaurant, she spent hours mopping floors and shining windows so things would be “perfect for him when he was ready to come back.”
“Mom,” I plead, trailing behind her as she cleans. “We can’t give up yet. Anthony’s going to get word about the catering contract with Pointe Hill State’s mentoring program any day now. And Iris says we’re a lock for the Solstice job.” I omit the part about Simone turning her nose up at our menu.
Mom stops short and turns. “You went behind my back and signed the lease. You had no right to do that.
