The Table I Never Sat At

Chapter 3 Peter

Peter came at lunch. He is forty-one and has his father's sigh. He sat at my table, which was still my table from the night before, and said, "Mom. Diana was helping you. You asked her to handle things. You forget."

"I forget the oven. I do not forget eighteen thousand dollars." I set the power of attorney on the cloth. "Did you watch her sign my name?"

He looked at it. He looked away. "She said you were tired. She said you wanted it. Dad said you never wanted to deal with money."

"Your father never asked."

"Mom."

"Peter. If you take her side because it is easier, you will still be my son. You will not be welcome at this table until you can say out loud that I did not sign that paper."

He left. Diana did not come. The kids, Emma and Jake, texted me about soccer. I texted back: Gran's house. Snacks. Not a word about china.

I called a lawyer. Ruth Calder, from a card on the community board at the library. She was expensive and mean and she did not laugh when I said I had never sat down.

"You sit now," she said. "Bring the packet. Bring the photos. Don't cook for them this week. Hunger is a teacher."

I did not cook. Gerald ate cereal. He hated cereal. I ate at the table with a plate and a napkin I did not iron.