Page 112 of Letters From A Stalker

“Julia, don’t start.”

“I haven’t started anything,” I tell her, keeping my own voice calmer than I feel. “I’m asking what happened.”

“She’s tired. You know how she gets when she’s tired.”

Unfortunately, I do. Mom becomes irritated by tiny things when she needs somewhere to put whatever she is carrying. A drawer closes too loudly. Nanna asks a question twice. The kitchen isn’t clean enough. Her rasp is suddenly too much to listen to. None of those things are actually the problem, but they become the target. Nanna begins making excuses almost immediately, telling me Mom has a lot going on and probably didn’t mean half of what she said, which only irritates me more because I know exactly how these conversations work.

“Did she yell at you?” There is a pause that makes me close my eyes. “Nanna.”

“She raised her voice.”

“About coffee cups?”

“Among other things.”

My fingers tighten around the edge of the comforter. “Do you want me to call her?”

“No.” Her answer is immediate now, firmer than anything else she has said in the last few minutes. “And before you say you’re going to anyway, I’m telling you not to.”

“She doesn’t get to use you as a punching bag because she’s having a bad morning.”

“I’m aware.”

“She acts like you’re deliberately inconveniencing her by being ninety-four.”

“She’s my daughter. I survived raising her, didn’t I?”

Despite myself, I smile. “That doesn’t mean she gets to be a brat.”

A small laugh comes through the phone. “I told her to go home.”

My eyebrows rise.

“You did?”

Nanna sounds almost offended by my surprise. “I’m old, not helpless.”

We spend another fifteen minutes talking about things that don’t matter, which is exactly what I want. She tells me one of her neighbors is flirting with a widower six years younger and acting as though she has committed a felony, and I tell her I fully support whatever scandalous retirement-home romance may be developing. Before we hang up, I make her promise to call if she needs anything.

Nanna exhales dramatically. “You need to stop running every time one of us has a bad day.”

“You’re ninety-four. I’m allowed.”

“You have a life.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Go live it.” There is no accusation hidden beneath the instruction, and that is the difference I always notice with her. She means it.

“Okay,” I say softly. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

The call ends, leaving me staring at the screen for another second before I finally climb out of bed.

I make it downstairs, start coffee and have barely taken my first sip when my phone rings again. This time the name on the screen makes my stomach sink.

Mom.