“I’m going to pick up Abigail from school.” Monica appeared in the doorway to her husband’s home office, her coat hanging over her arm. “Maybe take her out for a treat. God knows I need one.”
He bade her farewell, but Monica was already on the way to the main house, where she summoned her car and driver. At that time of day, she didn’t have to say where she was heading – but she did, just in case.
The line for child pickup at Winchester Academy was always backed up when the elementary school let out. No matter how early Monica arrived, she was at least ten cars deep, idling exhaust fumes filling the air with God knew what kind of chemicals.When will I buy an electric car already?It wasn’t amatter of money for her. It was the fact that she was cautious about waste, having been raised to never throw a single thing out unless it had truly run its use. Her current car was perfectly fine, even if it was several years old. It was comfortable. She could drive it herself if she had to. (But God assured her she didn’t. Monica hated driving more than she hated dealing with her mother-in-law. To her, a driver’s license was a dirty necessity.)
She scanned the faces of the first graders lined up for pickup. Their teacher distracted them with a singalong as one by one they ran off to a car or into the arms of a parent, nanny, or other guardian who was on pickup duty that day.
Where’s Abigail?
Monica always got out of the car to greet her daughter, but today she flew out of the backseat, hurrying up to the first-grade class with her heart alighting in a mother’s worry.
“Abigail?” That was the only time the teacher acknowledged her. “Where’s Abigail?”
The teacher looked between her and the remaining students in her class. “Mrs. Warren!” She waved to get Monica’s attention. “Abigail’s already on her way home.”
Monica felt like she had stepped into some alternate universe, awakened from a coma, ordied.This was purgatory. This was hell.
This was her without her daughter.
“What are you talking about? Who picked her up?”
The teacher nodded to the children before turning her whole body toward Monica. “Her grandmother, I believe. That’s what Abigail called her, and she was on the list of adults cleared for pickup…”
Isabella!
Monica flung herself back into her car and told the driver to hurry home. While he pulled away from the school, she called Henry, impatiently waiting for him to answer.
“Henry! Is our daughter home? Your mother picked her up!”
“I was just about to text you,” he greeted. “Not ten minutes after you left, Abigail ran in here to show me the pottery she made at school. Colored me confused – I thought that was the fasted pickup in Winchester Academy history.”
Monica lived through a huge sigh of relief while falling back into her seat. She hung up a second later, allowing her panic to completely ravage her body so it would properly diffuse into the ether.
When she got home, she once more had enough energy to tear through into the house while calling Abigail’s name.
“In here!”
Monica frantically followed the sound of her daughter’s voice. She was in the back of the main house, having a tea party with her grandmother in the sunroom.
“That’s right. Just like that.” Isabella supervised the way Abigail poured tea from a pot and added a lump of sugar. Her gentle stirring of the spoon ensured it never once clinked against the sides of the porcelain cup. “What a good girl! Such a quick learner.”
Abigail beamed in pride as she sat back down in her chair. Monica entered, eyes hurling flames at her mother-in-law’s upright body.I’ll see it on the floor in another minute!
“Look at how gingerly my Abby serves tea.” Isabella’s sharp nail came in for a landing on Abigail’s nose, making her giggle. “Go on. Show your mother. Pour her a cup.”
Monica was stunned silent as Abigail rolled up her sweater sleeves and once again picked up the heavy pot of English Breakfast. She pushed an empty teacup and saucer toward the seat in front of Monica, careful not to let a drop spill before placing the pot back on the tray in the center of the table. Without another word, she poured a dollop of creamer into her mother’s tea, just the way Monica liked it.
“Then we stir…” Abigail spoke to herself as she used a fresh spoon to stir the creamer well into her mother’s tea. “Go on, Mom. Have some tea with us.”
“The correct way to invite a lady would be to say,‘Why don’t you join us for tea?’ but close enough, dear.”
Monica was not keen to be reminded that her mother-in-law existed. Yet there she was, quite glib as she pretended not to smile in Monica’s direction.
She pulled out the chair and sat, still wearing her coat and holding her purse in her lap. Abigail proudly presented her mother with the perfect cup of tea and waited for her to drink.
Monica brought the rim up to her mouth.
“Psst,” Abigail hissed at a low volume. “You’re supposed to stick out your pinky.” She picked up her own cup and demonstrated with hers perked right up in the air. “Like this.”
