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Part 2: Amy’s Tuesday
Patricia looked at the schedule. Then at Nathan. Then at me, standing behind him on her front walk.
She said, This is ridiculous.
Nathan said, Then delete the post.
She pressed her lips together. Patricia has never backed down from anything in her life.
She said, Fine. I’ll do your little Tuesday. And when I’m done, you’ll both see that I was right.
She went upstairs and got dressed. She took out her curlers in the car.
At six o’clock, she was standing in my kitchen.
She made coffee. It was too strong. She packed Nathan’s lunch. She forgot the napkin.
At six fifteen, she walked our dog, Biscuit. Biscuit is a seventy-pound golden retriever who pulls. She came back twenty minutes later, out of breath, with grass on her knees.
At six thirty, she started the laundry. She asked me where the detergent was. Three times.
I couldn’t do work emails for her. But Nathan had printed out forty of my real ones from the week before. He set them on the table with a pen.
He said, Answer these. Then you can go to work.
Patricia doesn’t work anymore. So Nathan gave her a list of errands instead. Pharmacy. Dry cleaner. Post office. Bank. My actual Tuesday errands.
She drove to all of them. She came back at eleven thirty.
Then she sat down on my living room couch to rest for just one minute.
At eleven forty, she was asleep.
Mouth open. Shoes still on. Snoring softly.
Nathan came into the living room. He looked at his mother. Then he looked at me.
He took out his phone.
I put my hand on his arm.
I shook my head.
He looked at me for a long moment. Then he put the phone away.
I got the soft gray blanket from the hall closet. I laid it over my mother-in-law. I took off her shoes.
She slept for three hours.
At two forty-five, she woke up with a start. She saw the blanket. She saw the clock on the wall.
She looked at me sitting in the armchair across from her, reading a book.
Her face went pale.
She whispered, Did you take a picture?
Part 3: Three Hundred Sixty-Five Mornings
I closed my book. I said, No, Patricia. I didn’t.
She stared at me. She didn’t say anything.
Then she got up and went into the bathroom. She stayed in there for a long time.
While she was in there, I sat in my armchair and let myself count.
Six years married to Nathan.
Most years, more than three hundred sixty mornings up before six. I’ve never once missed packing his lunch. Not even when I had the flu two years ago.
Six thirty laundry. Seven thirty work. Eight-hour days at the insurance office. Groceries on the way home. Dinner by six thirty.
I don’t say this to complain. I like taking care of our home.
But last Tuesday, I had a fever of a hundred and two. For the first time in six years, I stayed in bed.
And Patricia took a picture.
I counted the comments on her post. Eighty-seven.
Some were kind. Feel better, Amy. Most were not.
Lazy. Kids these days. Poor Nathan.
My own aunt saw it. My boss saw it. My church friends saw it.
I counted the hours I cried that day. Two. Mostly into my pillow, so I wouldn’t cough.
Then I counted Patricia’s day.
One walk with Biscuit. Grass on her knees. Four errands. Forty emails she never answered.
And three hours of sleep on my couch at noon. Without a fever.
When Patricia came out of the bathroom, her eyes were red.
She sat down on the edge of the couch. She folded the gray blanket very carefully in her lap.
She said, quietly, Why didn’t you take the picture?
I said, Because I know how it feels.
She looked down at the blanket for a long time.
Then she said, Can I tell you something?
Part 4: The Blanket
Patricia started to speak. Then she stopped.
Then her voice hardened. The old Patricia came back.
She said she still thought Nathan’s little stunt was unfair. She said she was sixty-four. She said of course she was tired. She said it proved nothing.
She said, I raised three children. I never once stayed in bed until noon.
She said she wasn’t going to apologize on Facebook. She said everyone would laugh at her. She said she would look like a fool.
Then she said the thing she was really afraid of.
She said, If I take that post down, people will think I was wrong.
I felt that one land. It was meant to.
Because I understood. Being wrong in front of everyone is a terrible feeling. I’d felt it for a week.
I took a slow breath.
Patricia, I said quietly, you were wrong.
She flinched.
You walked into my bedroom without knocking, I said. You photographed me when I was too sick to stand. And you posted it for everyone I know to see.
She looked away.
I don’t need you to look foolish, I said gently. I just need you to take it down. And say you’re sorry. That’s all.
And I need the spare key back. It’s for emergencies. Not for checking on me.
Patricia sat there for a long time. Her hands were shaking a little.
Then she reached into her purse. She took out the spare key.
She set it on the coffee table.
Then she said, very softly, I never stayed in bed until noon because I wasn’t allowed to.
She looked up at me. Her eyes were full of tears.
She said, When Nathan was two, I had pneumonia. Nathan’s grandmother came over and told me to get up and make dinner. She said a good wife doesn’t lie around.
So I got up. I made dinner. I ended up in the hospital for six days.
She said, I’ve been angry about that for forty years. And last Tuesday, I walked into your room and became her.
Part 5: Soup
I didn’t know what to say. So I reached over and held Patricia’s hand.
She cried. Not loudly. Just quiet tears falling onto the gray blanket.
Nathan came in from the kitchen. He saw his mother crying. He sat down on her other side.
He said, Mom, I never knew about the pneumonia.
She said, Your father never knew either. Not really. I never told anyone.
That evening, after Patricia went home, my phone buzzed.
She had deleted the post.
Then she posted a new one.
I owe my daughter-in-law an apology. Last week, I shared a photo of her when she was very sick. I was wrong. She works harder than anyone I know. Today I spent one day doing what she does every day, without a fever, and I was asleep on her couch by noon. She covered me with a blanket and didn’t take a picture. I’ve learned more from her kindness than she will ever learn from my mistake. I’m so sorry, Amy.
It had more comments than the first one. Two hundred and twelve.
Almost every one said something kind. To both of us.
My aunt called that night. She said, Your mother-in-law surprised me.
I said, She surprised me too.
Patricia started seeing a counselor that winter. She told me about it over coffee. She said she was learning that rest isn’t the same as laziness.
She said, I’m sixty-four years old and I’m learning to take naps.
She doesn’t have a spare key anymore. Now, when she comes over, she knocks.
Last month, I got sick again. Just a cold this time. Nothing serious.
I texted Nathan to tell him I’d be staying in bed.
At noon, there was a knock at the front door.
I shuffled to the door in my robe.
It was Patricia. She was holding a big pot of homemade chicken soup.
She said, Nathan told me you’re sick.
She came inside. She heated the soup. She brought me a bowl in bed.
She folded my laundry. She walked Biscuit. She came back with grass on her knees again.
Then she peeked into my bedroom. I was half asleep.
She took the soft gray blanket from the closet. She tucked it around my shoulders.
She leaned down and whispered, Sleep as long as you need, sweetheart.
Then she quietly closed the door.
I didn’t get up until two.
And nobody took a single picture.
