Sunday dinners continued, too, but I began doing the cooking. Mom protested at first, then started bringing recipes instead of entire meals.
One afternoon, I found her in my kitchen watching my daughter roll out pie dough using Margaret’s little wooden rolling pin.
“You’re pressing too hard,” Mom told her.
My daughter laughed. “You sound like Grandma Maggie!”
Mom smiled, and so did I.
We’d started calling Margaret that again.
For twenty years, Mom had believed the best way to honor her friend’s kindness was to repay it without asking for help. She’d hidden the past because she was ashamed of needing someone, and she’d nearly harmed herself trying to make things right.
But Margaret had never wanted repayment.
She’d simply wanted her friend back.
