Chapter 3 - The Flying Monkeys Arrive
By Tuesday afternoon, the siege had moved from text messages to direct proxy attacks. Eleanor, Reed’s mother, called my cell phone four times before finally leaving an eight-minute voicemail that sounded more like a legal deposition than a family holiday check-in. Eleanor was a woman who prided herself on being the ultimate social coordinator of Burlington’s upper-middle class. Her voice was always smooth, coated in that southern-inflected faux sweetness that masks pure, unadulterated judgment.
""Martha, darling,"" Eleanor began, her voice dripping with calculated concern. ""I’m calling because we are all simply beside ourselves with worry. Reed told us what happened at your house, and quite frankly, we’re wondering if you’re experiencing some kind of cognitive decline or extreme burnout. People your age sometimes find routine maintenance overwhelming, and turning off the main water valve in the middle of November certainly suggests some confusion. If hosting is simply too much for your physical capabilities, you only had to say so with grace! Now poor Claudia is running around trying to accommodate our entire extended family, and Reed is under an immense amount of professional stress. We really must insist that you call Claudia, provide the code to the security system, and tell the plumber how to restore the water line. We can hire caterers to take the burden off your shoulders, darling, but using your house is truly the only logical option at this late stage. Let’s not let pride ruin a holy family tradition.""
I listened to the recording twice, completely fascinated by the sheer audacity of it. Cognitive decline. Extreme burnout. Physical incapability. Eleanor hadn't spent ten minutes in my company over the last three years without subtly commenting on how ""tired"" I looked or how ""manageable"" a small one-bedroom senior condo might be for me. They weren't just trying to bully me into opening my house; they were building an excuse for why I had dared to tell them no. If I was old and confused, my rebellion wasn't a valid assertion of boundaries—it was a symptom to be managed and overridden.
I pressed the button and permanently deleted the message. Five minutes later, my son Owen called. I answered immediately.
""Hey, Mom,"" Owen said, his voice relaxed and steady. ""Just checking in. Has the hurricane reached the lake yet?""
""Eleanor just diagnosed me with early-onset dementia via voicemail,"" I said dryly, pouring hot water over an herbal tea bag.
Owen let out a loud snort of laughter that made my heart feel ten pounds lighter. ""Classic Eleanor. She called me an hour ago trying to recruit me to stage an intervention. She actually asked if I could drive down to your house, use my spare key, and 'supervise' the setup so Claudia wouldn't have to carry the folding tables alone. I told her that if anyone tried to enter your house again without your written permission, I’d personally call the police and report a residential burglary.""
""Owen, you didn't.""
""I absolutely did, Mom. Claudia needs to wake up. She’s thirty-four years old. She lives in an eight-hundred-thousand-dollar house with an open-concept kitchen that looks like an architectural magazine spread. Why aren't they hosting at their place?""
""Because,"" I sighed, ""her wide-plank white oak floors might get scratched, her antique rugs might get stained, and she doesn't want the smell of roast turkey lingering in her upholstered drapery. She told me that exact excuse two years ago when I asked why we couldn't alternate.""
""Exactly,"" Owen said, his tone turning serious. ""She wants the prestige of having hosted twenty-two people without any of the wear, tear, or labor that comes with it. You've shielded her from reality for her entire life, Mom. It’s about time she learned that other human beings don't exist just to provide scenic backdrop for her Instagram stories. By the way, Sarah and the kids and I are having Thanksgiving at our house. Quiet dinner. Four people. If you want to join us, you're always welcome, but if you just want to sit on that porch and read your books, we love you just the same.""
May you like
Tears pricked behind my eyes, hot and genuine. ""Thank you, sweetheart. I think I just need to stay here. I need to remember who Martha is when she isn't making gravy for twenty people.""
""Take all the time you need, Mom. And do me a favor? Block Eleanor’s number. She’s not family; she’s an administrative headache with a diamond tennis bracelet.""
