“Which card will you be using for the $1,486.72?”
The waiter’s question landed more heavily than the black leather folder he had placed beside Brian’s elbow.
For several seconds, none of my children moved.
Brian stared at the total as though the numbers might rearrange themselves if he waited long enough.
Madison stopped with her champagne glass halfway to her mouth.
Kevin leaned across the table, looked at the bill, and quietly sat back again.
Around them were the remains of the brunch they had ordered without restraint: lobster Benedict, steak, pancakes, champagne, pastries, extra bacon, fresh juice, and three barely touched salads.
They had ordered like people who believed someone else would absorb the consequences.
They had ordered like they always did when I was present.
Only this time, I was already seated on an airplane.
Brian recovered first.
“Our mother is paying,” he told the waiter.
The waiter glanced at the empty thirteenth place setting they had demanded be kept open for me.
“Will she be joining you?”
“She’s running late.”
Madison looked down at her phone.
“No, she isn’t.”
Brian turned toward her.
“What does that mean?”
“She sent a picture from the gate.”
Kevin checked the group chat.
My message was still there beneath the photograph of their crowded table.
Gate C18.
Boarding now.
Brian’s wife looked at him.
“You said she was joking.”
“She is joking.”
“From an airplane?”
“She’ll call with her card number.”
The waiter remained beside the table, patient but unmoved.
“We don’t accept payment from a cardholder who isn’t present unless prior arrangements were made,” he said.
“There is no card attached to the reservation.”
Brian’s face tightened.
He had made the reservation himself.
He knew there was no card attached.
He had simply assumed mine would appear with me, as it had so many times before.
One of my grandchildren tugged at Madison’s sleeve.
“Is Grandma coming for her Mother’s Day?”
The question was innocent.
That made it worse.
Madison glanced around the table, suddenly aware that the children were listening.
“Grandma had somewhere else to be,” she said.
“On Mother’s Day?”
No one answered.
The waiter closed the folder but did not remove it.
“I can give you a few minutes to decide how you would like to divide the payment.”
When he walked away, Brian immediately called me again.
My phone vibrated against the armrest just as the cabin door was closing.
I looked at his name and felt the old reflex rise inside me.
Answer.
Fix it.
Make everyone comfortable.
Prevent the scene.
That reflex had ruled most of my adult life.
When their father left, Brian was twelve, Madison was nine, and Kevin was six.
I had learned to solve problems before they reached the children.
