The date on the back, written in her mother's careful script:Two weeks before the end. She came back.
Kate stared at it until a floorboard creaked behind her.
“Why do you look like you've seen a ghost?” James asked, appearing in the doorway, his running shoes still untied, laptop tucked under his arm like always.
“Family meeting,” Kate said, closing her hand around the photograph before slipping it back into her pocket. “Family meeting. Now.”
“Bad news?”
“I don't know yet.”
James's face shifted from casual to concerned. “I'll get Dani.”
“Why am I thinking this isn’t good news?” Tom asked.
Dani bounced down the stairs followed by James. “Sorry, I was on the phone with a friend from New York. What’s going on?”
They settled into chairs at the kitchen table, but Kate didn't sit. She couldn't. If she stopped moving, she might think too hard about what five days meant. Why Lillian couldn't wait a week, or two.
“Lillian called,” she said. “She wants to talk to us after the brunch on Mother's Day. Sunday at four o’clock. All of us.”
Dani laughed. “This Sunday? We have so much to do on that day. We'll be exhausted. Why would she pick then to talk when she can talk to us any other day?”
“Because it's Mother's Day,” Tom said tightly, understanding immediately. “Because she's making a point.”
“Or because she's dying and wants to be thought of as some matriarchal authority before she’s gone,” James said quietly, already typing on his laptop. “Five days' notice? She's not giving us time to find excuses.” He turned the screen toward them. “Pancreatic cancer, stage four. Average life expectancy after diagnosis is…”
“Stop,” Dani said sharply, interrupting him. “Just stop.”
James closed the laptop. “Sorry. I process through research.”
Kate nodded. “She sounded… different. Weaker. She said please and thank you.”
That stopped them all. Lillian Whitfield didn't say please and rarely said thank you. She commanded, she decreed, she occasionally condescended to request. But please and thank you?
“She knows about the brunch,” Kate added. “Said to come at four, after we’re done.”
“She's been keeping tabs on us,” Tom said, and it wasn't a question.
“Five days,” Dani whispered. “She's giving us five days to prepare for... what? A goodbye? A confession? An apology?”
“Maybe all of it,” Kate said, thinking of the photograph in her pocket.
Dani's eyes grew glassy. “I hate this. I hate that she waited until the last possible moment. Why couldn't she have come back when Mom was sick? When Pop still knew us? When there was time to fix things?”
“Maybe she tried,” Kate said quietly.
They all looked at her.
Kate pulled out the photograph, set it on the table. Her siblings leaned in, Tom picking it up first.
“Is that...?”
“Mom and Lillian. Two weeks before Mom died.”
“That's impossible,” Dani said, snatching the photo. “She never came. We would have known.”
“Would we?” Kate asked. “We were all so angry. Maybe Mom didn't tell us.”
