The Black Suitcase
My mother had always been a cheerful, slightly overweight woman.
That’s how I’d describe her if you asked. Round face. Soft arms. A laugh that came from somewhere deep in her stomach and filled up every room she walked into. She wore cardigans with pockets full of tissues and butterscotch candies. She smelled like vanilla extract and Jergens lotion.
She loved baking. Cinnamon rolls every Saturday. Apple pie every Sunday. Banana bread whenever a banana got a single brown spot, because she couldn’t stand to waste anything.
And she never missed Sunday dinner.
Never. Not once in my whole life. Not when my father had his heart attack in 2009. Not when she broke her wrist in 2016. Not during the pandemic, when we did it over FaceTime with her propping her iPad up against the gravy boat.
Every Sunday at four o’clock. Pot roast or roast chicken or meatloaf. Mashed potatoes. Green beans with bacon. Rolls from scratch. Pie.
So when she announced in October that she was spending a week with her childhood friend Margaret, I was happy for her.
I really was.
“Margaret?” I said. “Margaret from Erie?”
We were sitting at her kitchen table on a Sunday afternoon. After the pot roast. Before the pie. She was cutting the pie into eight perfect slices with the same knife she’d used since 1971. 