“Do you have time to talk?”
Sweet of her to ask, my 93-year-old mother. Of course I have time.
“What’s up Mom?”
“I’ve been thinking that before I die, I should call Karen. What do you think?”
I draw a blank. “Who is Karen?”
“Reg’s other daughter – she doesn’t know he was her Dad, and well, since I was there, don’t you think it’s right I be the one to tell her. Put her mind at rest.”
It takes me a minute to put the pieces together. Mom and Reg were married and had four children – my half siblings – when things fell apart. Reg left her for Jean – former best friend of my mother – who also had four children. The youngest daughter is Karen.
Karen is now in her late 60’s.
“She was asking a lot of questions when she came to visit that time with your brother. I didn’t feel it was my place to say then – with her parents alive. Now I could give her some peace. I won’t say anything against anyone.”
Caught off guard, I can’t think of one reason why not. To be honest, I am endeared by my mother, who is willing to revisit all that pain for the good of another.
My writing mind appreciates the story here. Oh to be a fly on the wall for that phone call.
Let your imagination run wild with this one. One phone call can change the state of things. I know I can easily think of of a number of phone calls in my life: some funny, some tragic, some bursting with promise. Of course, top on anyone’s mind who’s watching the American election: there’s that call from Trump to Biden conceding the race.
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