Tonight, the folding table wobbled on its short leg like it always does. I propped it with the old dictionary.
My niece came by after her driving lesson, still buzzing from parallel parking for the first time.
Then the phone rang. It was my daughter, calling from the center where she's been for six weeks.
I passed the phone around the table. First to my granddaughter, who said "I miss you, Mom" into it.
Then to my niece, who told her about the car. Then back to me.
My daughter sounded tired but clear. I said I was proud of her. She said she was trying.
After we hung up, my granddaughter asked if her mom would be home for her birthday. I said I didn't know.
That's the quiet battle. Not the meat hooks or the early mornings. It's answering questions I don't have the answers to, and still keeping the table set.