Part 2
Megan broke the silence first.
“She means the bedrooms.”
Robert looked at her.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
She picked up my overnight bag before I could stop her.
“Megan.”
“I’m helping.”
“Put it down.”
Instead, she carried it toward the entryway.
I followed her.
She placed it beside the front door.
Not beside my chair.
Not near the staircase.
Beside the door.
“There,” she said. “Nobody will trip over it.”
I stared at the bag.
A few guests had begun watching again.
“Megan, bring it back.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m staying.”
Her mouth formed a patient smile.
“We’ve been over this.”
“No. You’ve talked. I’ve listened.”
Robert moved closer.
“Mom, she’s not throwing you out.”
Megan looked at him.
“Robert.”
“What?”
“Don’t make promises.”
He went still.
I bent down and picked up my bag.
My wrist protested under the weight.
Robert reached for it.
“I’ve got it.”
“No.”
“Mom.”
“I said no.”
I carried it back myself.
The room had grown quieter.
A little girl stood near the sofa holding my quilt.
She had wrapped it around her shoulders like a cape.
“Sweetheart,” I said gently. “May I have that?”
The girl looked toward Megan.
Not her mother.
Megan sighed.
“Just give it to her, Emma.”
The girl handed it over.
“Thank you.”
I folded it against my chest.
Megan watched me smooth the fabric.
“You know, some things don’t have to be treated like museum pieces.”
I said nothing.
She turned toward the room.
“Sorry, everyone. Please keep enjoying yourselves.”
The conversations restarted slowly.
Robert came beside me.
“Let me put the quilt somewhere safe.”
“I can do it.”
“Where?”
I looked toward the staircase.
His face tightened.
I saw Megan watching us.
I lowered my eyes to the quilt.
“For now, here is fine.”
I sat in Henry’s wicker chair and held it across my knees.
No one asked the stranger to leave Henry’s armchair.
No one offered to move my bag.
Across the room, Megan raised the music.
Robert stayed standing beside me.
Then Megan called his name.
He left me there.
“Margaret?”
The woman from earlier stood beside my chair.
She held two glasses of water.
“I’m Linda.”
I recognized the name.
“Megan’s mother.”
She nodded and offered me one glass.
“Thank you.”
Instead of leaving, Linda sat on the edge of the sofa.
“I owe you an apology.”
That surprised me.
“For what?”
“The crowd.”
She looked around.
“I didn’t know you were coming.”
“I live here.”
Her fingers tightened around her glass.
“Yes.”
Something in her answer made me study her.
Linda leaned closer.
“Megan said you preferred staying inland now.”
“I don’t have another home.”
Her eyes flicked toward her daughter.
Megan was laughing near the kitchen.
Robert stood beside her without laughing.
Linda lowered her voice.
“I see.”
That was all.
No excuse.
No defense.
For the first time since I arrived, someone looked embarrassed for me instead of by me.
Then Megan appeared.
“Mom, can I borrow you?”
Linda stood.
“We’re talking.”
“I can see that.”
Megan’s smile remained fixed.
Linda looked down at me.
“I’m sorry, Margaret.”
Megan’s expression changed.
Only for an instant.
“Mom.”
Linda walked away.
Megan remained.
“What did she say?”
“That she was sorry.”
“For what?”
“You should ask her.”
Megan pulled the empty spot beside me clear and sat.
Her knee nearly touched mine.
“This weekend matters to me.”
I waited.
“My family rarely gets everyone together.”
“You could have asked.”
“I knew what you’d say.”
My fingers stopped moving across the quilt.
“What would I say?”
“No.”
She said it immediately.
“You make everything difficult because you can’t accept that life changes.”
I looked at Robert across the room.
He saw us.
He did not come over.
Megan followed my eyes.
“He’s under enough pressure.”
“From whom?”
“Don’t.”
She stood.
Then she noticed the photograph resting on my bag.
Her gaze lingered there.
“Henry’s gone, Margaret.”
My throat tightened.
She walked away before I could answer.
I turned the photograph facedown.
Dinner appeared without anyone asking whether I wanted any.
Trays covered the dining table Henry had refinished by hand.
I stayed in the living room until Robert approached.
“You should eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You haven’t had anything.”
“I said I’m not hungry.”
He crouched beside my chair.
For a moment, he looked like my son again.
Not Megan’s husband.
Not the nervous man carrying a beer.
Just Robert.
“Mom, I’m sorry.”
I looked at him.
He held my gaze for two seconds.
Then three.
“For what?”
His eyes dropped.
“The weekend.”
“That’s vague.”
“I should’ve called.”
“Yes.”
“I thought we could make it work.”
“Make what work?”
Megan’s voice came from behind him.
“Robert, your plate’s getting cold.”
He stood immediately.
I looked away.
“Go eat.”
“Mom—”
“Go.”
He hesitated.
Then he went.
I remained alone until a teenage boy entered carrying a framed photograph.
“Ma’am?”
I looked up.
He held another picture of Henry and me.
It normally hung in the upstairs hallway.
“Where did you get that?”
“Upstairs.”
I stood too quickly.
The room tilted.
I grabbed the chair.
The boy stepped forward.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
He offered me the frame.
“Someone told me to put these in the garage.”
“These?”
He pointed toward the staircase.
“There are more.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who told you?”
Before he answered, Megan crossed the room.
“There you are, Josh.”
She took the photograph from his hands.
“I told you I’d handle those.”
I stared at her.
“Handle what?”
“Some old pictures.”
“Why?”
“We needed wall space.”
“For what?”
She gave Josh a look.
He disappeared toward the dining room.
I reached for the frame.
Megan held it another second before releasing it.
“What are you putting on my walls?”
“Nothing permanent.”
“Megan.”
“Please stop making every little thing dramatic.”
I pressed the photograph against my chest.
Behind her, two guests emerged from upstairs carrying another frame between them.
It was my family portrait.
Robert was twelve in that picture.
He walked past them carrying his dinner plate.
He saw it.
He kept walking.
The party thinned after ten.
Not enough.
Children still occupied the sofa. Empty glasses crowded the kitchen. Luggage remained stacked along the upstairs landing.
I had not moved from Henry’s chair.
My back ached.
My overnight bag rested against my ankle.
Megan walked toward me carrying her phone.
“I found something.”
I looked up.
“A hotel.”
Robert followed several steps behind her.
I said nothing.
“It’s twelve minutes away,” Megan continued. “Ocean view. Breakfast included.”
“No.”
“I’ll pay.”
“No.”
“Margaret, this is ridiculous.”
“Then stop asking.”
Her voice dropped.
“My parents are staying upstairs.”
“I heard you.”
“They need privacy.”
“So do I.”
She glanced toward the guests still lingering nearby.
“You’re seventy years old. One night in a hotel will not hurt you.”
Robert flinched.
I looked at him.
He stared past me.
Megan held out her phone.
“Look.”
“I don’t need to.”
“Just take it.”
“No.”
Her hand remained extended.
I folded mine together.
Something in her hardened.
“Fine.”
She lowered the phone.
“Then you can sleep down here.”
Robert finally looked at her.
“Megan.”
“What?”
“That’s enough.”
For one hopeful second, I waited.
Megan turned toward him.
“Then you tell my parents they have to move.”
He said nothing.
She waited.
His shoulders sank.
I understood before he spoke.
“Mom, maybe just for tonight.”
The words landed quietly.
That made them worse.
I looked at the staircase.
Then at my son.
“My bedroom.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“Megan’s parents already unpacked.”
The room seemed to lose its sound.
I gripped the arms of the chair and stood.
My knees shook.
Robert reached for me.
I stepped away.
“Don’t.”
He stopped.
Megan folded her arms.
“Nobody is trying to hurt you.”
I picked up my bag.
It felt heavier now.
“So where am I supposed to sleep?”
Neither answered immediately.
Then Megan pointed toward the sofa.
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