The sunroom has become the only place in the house where I can really disconnect.
The light filters weakly through the glass panels, pale and cold against my skin. It’s a winter light that feels more like memory than warmth.
I sit at the small wooden table and open my laptop. I start arranging my folders, focusing on the mindless tasks that keep my hands occupied and my thoughts at bay.
Work has always been the easiest way to drown out the noise.
Words don’t judge, don’t ask questions, don’t look at me with pity. They just demand focus and that’s something I can give.
I’m halfway through sorting my files when the doorbell rings.
I grab my phone and open the doorbell app. The image comes into focus and my stomach drops.
It’s Barbara. Colin’s mother.
Standing right in front of the door.
For a few seconds, I just stare, gathering the strength for whatever it is she’s come here to do.
I can count on both hands, and still have fingers left, the number of times she or Richard have come by for any reason at all since we moved to Brooklyn.
I close the laptop, smooth the front of my sweater, and take a steadying breath. My fingers tremble slightly as I walk toward the entryway.
At the door, I wait just long enough to hear my own heartbeat before finally unlocking it.
“Barbara.”
Her gaze sweeps over me, cool and assessing, before she offers a polite smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Cecily,” she says. “We need to talk.”
I nod slowly, forcing a small smile that feels more like reflex than warmth.
“Of course. Come in.”
Barbara steps inside, taking a moment to glance around as if she’s cataloguing every change since the last time she was here, which, if I’m being honest, was years ago.
Her perfume lingers as she passes me, the same classic scent she’s worn forever. It always arrives before she does and stays long after she’s gone.
“I’ll make us some coffee. I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I say, my voice low.
She gives a curt nod, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor as she walks ahead into the living room.
In the kitchen, I take a deep breath and rest both hands on the counter for a moment. My reflection in the dark surface of the coffee maker looks tired, older somehow. I go through the motions mechanically. Soon, the rich, bitter smell surrounds me.
There’s something grounding about the process. It gives me a minute to pull myself together before facing her again.
I make it strong, just the way she likes it. No milk. Just a touch of sugar. When the coffee is ready, I pour it into two cups and place a small plate of buttered cookies beside them. Then I carry the tray back to the living room.
Barbara sits perfectly straight on the couch, her ankles crossed and angled slightly to the side, her purse resting neatly beside her. She looks like she’s waiting for a board meeting to begin.
“Here,” I say, setting the tray on the table between us. “Coffee. And cookies.”
She glances at the cookies but doesn’t touch them. Instead, she wraps her manicured fingers around the cup and takes a slow sip.
“Thank you,” she says, her tone polite but distant.
I nod, lowering myself onto the opposite couch. I reach for my cup, the porcelain warm against my palms, and take a slow sip, more for something to do than for the taste.
