Chapter 3 - The Rearrangement of PrioritiesBy 8:45 a.m., Patrice’s front hallway looked like an international shipping terminal.
The two large suitcases, Chloe’s pink backpack, the duffel bag stuffed with emergency cash, and the infamous red folder sat in a neat, disgruntled pile next to the umbrella stand. Patrice had already mobilized with terrifying efficiency. She had seated all four children around her massive glass kitchen table, parked a box of cinnamon pop-tarts and four glasses of milk in front of them, and was currently standing by the wall phone with her smartphone pressed hard against her ear.
“No, Brenda, I cannot chair the charity auction committee this afternoon,” Patrice was saying, her voice clipped and sharp enough to cut glass. “My daughter has committed an act of spontaneous parental abandonment, and I have grandchildren to wrangle. Call Susan; she loves committee work.”
She clicked the phone off without waiting for an answer and turned to face the room.
I stood by the kitchen island, holding my car keys. “Patrice, are you sure you’re going to be okay? I can call a neighborhood teen to help with the carpools, or—'’
“Myrna,” Patrice cut me off, walking over and placing both hands firmly on my shoulders. She looked me dead in the eye. “Go to Portugal. Drink wine in Lisbon. Look at the ocean. If I have to deal with Tori’s mess for two weeks, the absolute least I can do is make sure you don't spend it trapped in your kitchen playing unpaid nanny while your son pretends he lives in a vacuum.”
I felt a sudden, hot prickle behind my eyelids. It was a bizarre sensation—receiving fierce, unconditional solidarity from the woman I had spent a decade politely dodging at birthday parties.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“Don't thank me yet,” Patrice sighed, a wry smile touching the corners of her mouth. “Wait until I FaceTime Tori from the middle of a hair appointment while she’s trying to check into her Tokyo hotel. The time zone difference is going to be my absolute favorite weapon.”
I laughed out loud, the last lingering knot of tension finally dissolving from my stomach.
I walked over to the kitchen table where the kids were eating. Eli looked up, chewing his pop-tart slowly, his eyes searching my face with that watchful maturity.
“Are you really getting on a big airplane, Grandma?” Finn asked, his mouth dusted with pink frosting.
“I really am,” I said, kneeling down beside his chair. “And when I get back, I expect a full report on how many stories Grandma Patrice made you read.”
Chloe leaned over and gave me a fierce, unexpected hug around the neck, her stuffed rabbit squishing against my shoulder. “Have fun, Grandma. Take lots of pictures of the buildings.”
“I promise I will,” I whispered into her hair.
I stood up, gave Eli a reassuring pat on the shoulder, and grabbed my car keys. Patrice walked me out to the front porch, the morning sun sparkling off the dew-soaked lawn.
“Have a safe flight, Myrna,” she said, adjusting her bathrobe sash. “And don't you dare think about us once you clear security.”
“I won't,” I smiled.
May you like
As I backed my car out of her driveway and pointed the hood toward home, I checked the dashboard clock: 9:12 a.m.
My flight to Newark didn't board until 1:15. For the first time in five years, every single minute between now and takeoff belonged entirely, unequivocally to me.
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