I woke up, made myself a single cup of chamomile tea, and sat on the back patio.
When Sarah trudged downstairs at 8, she immediately stopped in the kitchen doorway.
“There’s no coffee,” she pointed out, rubbing her temples.
“The beans are in the pantry,” I offered, turning a page of my book.
She sighed loudly, a sound designed to convey immense suffering.
“I’m going to be late. Teresa, you usually have it ready.”
“I decided to switch to tea,” I answered.
She opened her mouth to argue, but caught herself, storming off to the pantry.
10 minutes later, she marched into the living room holding a plastic laundry basket.
“My silk blouse isn’t clean,” Sarah complained, dropping the basket onto the rug. “I left it in the hamper on Sunday.”
I closed my book slowly.
“I did my laundry yesterday.”
“Right? But you didn’t do ours.”
“I’m sure you and David can figure out the washing machine. Sarah, the manual is in the top drawer.”
She stared at me, her eyes narrowing.
“Is this because of what David said? Are you seriously throwing a tantrum?”
I didn’t raise my voice. I simply stood up, picked up my teacup, and looked her up and down.
“A tantrum is what a child throws when they don’t get their way. I am simply a woman managing her own chores. You are 30 years old. Wash your own blouse.”
I walked past her, leaving her standing there with her dirty clothes.
The entitlement was suffocating, thick enough to cut with a knife.
But as I washed my teacup in the sink, I noticed something sticking out from under the pile of mail on the counter, a glossy brochure deliberately left out.
The brochure was printed on heavy, expensive paper.
Sunset Pines, Independent and Assisted Living for the Golden Years.
I picked it up, my thumb tracing the image of a smiling silverhaired woman playing bingo.