Chapter 26 - THE LAST EASTER BASKET
At sixty, I hosted Easter.
Voluntarily.
Michael cooked.
Badly.
I made dessert.
My stepdaughter Julia brought her children.
One little girl knocked over an Easter basket.
Plastic eggs rolled under the dining table.
My body froze.
One second.
Maybe two.
Then:
“Mom?”
“I’m okay.”
Actually.
The old room flashed.
Satin dress.
Bruises.
Phone.
Ethan.
Then faded.
My granddaughter crawled beneath the table.
“Got one!”
I laughed.
“Good.”
No sirens.
No police.
No hidden camera.
Michael had a visible doorbell camera outside.
We both knew.
No interior cameras.
Not because cameras were evil.
Because I did not want them.
Enough.
After lunch, Julia asked:
“Do you still hate Easter?”
“No.”
“Did you?”
“For a while.”
“I can stop hosting.”
“No.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
Then:
“If I don’t want to cook, I won’t.”
Michael shouted from kitchen:
“I heard that!”
Ordinary noise.
No fear underneath.
Later I found one pink plastic egg beneath the sofa.
Held it.
No symbolism needed.
Put it back.
That evening I received Caldwell Meridian’s annual report through a diversified fund newsletter.
The company had grown.
Different leadership.
No Caldwell family voting control.
Employee equity.
Independent investors.
Old Care Management gone.
Margaret and Ethan nowhere in leadership.
Companies move on.
So do people.
I closed the report.
Michael handed me tea.
“Business?”
“Ancient history.”
“Good ancient or bad?”
“Boring.”
Best kind.
I looked toward the Easter basket.
For years, I thought recovery meant never seeing the past again.
May you like
I knew better now.
Recovery meant seeing the same shape without becoming the same woman.
