My mom hadn’t been out to dinner in months.
Seven months, actually. I counted. The last time was Easter, at my aunt’s house, and that barely counted because it was family.
That fact had been bothering me more than I wanted to admit.
Because Molly always loved going out.
When I was a kid, my mother could turn an ordinary Tuesday dinner at a diner into an event. She’d study the menu like it held state secrets. She’d read every single description out loud in a funny voice. “Hand-breaded, golden-crisp onion rings, served with our signature dipping sauce.” Then she’d look up at me over the top of the menu and whisper, “What do you think the signature is? I bet it’s ketchup and mayonnaise. I bet they’re lying to us.”
She’d insist everybody at the table taste what she ordered. She’d hold her fork across the table at you until you gave in. And somehow, by the time dessert came, she’d be friends with the server. She’d know the server’s name, where she went to high school, and what her boyfriend did for a living.
My dad used to say she could make friends with a brick wall.
“Only if the wall has a nice personality,” Mom would say.
But somewhere along the way, restaurants stopped feeling safe to her.
It wasn’t because she stopped liking food. My mom still loves food more than anybody I know. She watches cooking shows every night. She can tell you the difference between six kinds of basil.
It was because people stopped minding their own business.
My mother is a big woman. She’s been a big woman for as long as I can remember. When I was little, I thought she was the softest, best-smelling, warmest place in the world to fall asleep. I still think that.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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